


I Remember, I Remember

by KMWells



Series: The Darcy Potter Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Canonical Character Death, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Harry Potter Has a Sibling, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Love, character driven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-05-14 15:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 61
Words: 281,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMWells/pseuds/KMWells
Summary: Darcy Potter returns to Hogwarts as an assistant to Professor Snape to be close to Harry, and Dumbledore urges Darcy to be aware, to be ready, and to keep a watch on Harry. Unsettled by this cryptic warning and bitter about her friends' success in their lives after school, Darcy quickly finds that life in the Wizarding World isn't quite what she's expected, struggling with her increasingly shaky relationship with her godfather, immense pressure to become more than just her brother's keeper, public backlash after a series of articles published by a certain Rita Skeeter, a fawning Professor that Snape warns her about, and the fact that Harry's life is—yet again—in danger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! The title of this story is actually the title of one of my favorite poems by Thomas Hood. I'm super excited to be posting the first chapter! Enjoy!

Darcy’s stomach growls loudly, the only sound in the sleeping house.

She’s quite used to it by now. Less than a month into the summer and she’s already shed a few pounds, lost most of the color in her face, and the ever present hunger makes her snap very easily, especially towards Harry, who doesn’t resist a chance to snap right back. Once, Vernon had caught her trying to sneak a piece of chicken from the refrigerator before bed, and that had earned her a swat across the face (Petunia had been furious the next morning upon learning about both Darcy’s and Vernon’s behavior), and since then, Darcy’s avoided trying to steal food.

It had all started because of Dudley. His mother had put him on a diet at the insistence of his fancy school, which meant that the entire household now has to follow a strict meal schedule, though Darcy barely calls them meals. Breakfasts are full of fresh fruit, which Darcy does enjoy, but the portions are so small that it’s a tease to eat what’s set in front of her. A quarter of a grapefruit does nothing to help sustain her, and while Darcy has been putting off spending time with Lupin in order to support Harry through this very distressing ordeal, she knows that, soon, she won’t have a choice. Lupin would never let her starve, and the idea of him allowing her more than one helping of a sorry portion of food is far more exciting to her than it should be. But part of her is very hesitant to tell Lupin what’s going on—not that she actually expects him to show up and take her away—but she remembers how he’d reacted the last time he had been given insight to Darcy’s home life.

There had been letters, of course—three of them, in fact, both written in a familiar, untidy scrawl. The first had seemed so professional and parent-like, making sure Darcy and Harry were all right, that Sirius had written to him in regards to her last letter to her godfather, and that he was concerned about how the Dursleys were treating her. Lupin hadn’t mentioned a specific date she could see him, but hinted at waiting for the next full moon to begin to wane, at least, to give him time to recover. To Darcy’s horror, Lupin had also asked if she would like him to retrieve her from Privet Drive to escort her to his modest home. Darcy had sent back her answer quickly (“NO.”) and Max had returned not three days later with his answer.

The third letter is still open on her desk, as Darcy hasn’t had the energy to respond. It’s a short letter, expressing his eagerness at having Darcy stay with him as opposed to the Dursleys, but Darcy can’t find it in her to be as excited. She thinks of leaving Harry alone (even just for a single week) and feels a twinge of guilt, knowing that he’ll likely starve while she’s gone. Several times, she’d entertained the idea of asking Lupin if Harry could come with her, just for a little while, just to get him away, but Harry had been incredibly embarrassed about the idea when she had brought it up to him—Darcy hasn’t brought it up since. She also can’t shake a heightened sense of anxiety, having never even stayed the night with Lupin before—unless she were to count the night they had both fallen asleep and woken up in the dead of night. But Darcy concludes that, no matter how awkward it may be at Lupin’s, he likely isn’t on a diet, and anywhere _has_ to be better than Privet Drive.

Darcy sits up in her bed and looks around the room, rubbing her eyes. The dim lamp on her desk is still on, casting her bedroom part in shadow, part in flickering yellow light. She turns around to look at the photographs stuck on the walls—the picture of her younger self, her parents, Lupin, and Sirius, and the picture of she and Harry outside Hogwarts just a little while ago. She eyes the tear in the picture she’d made at the beginning of the summer while removing Peter Pettigrew from it—she seems him almost every night in her dreams, however, not as a young boy, but as a man. An ugly man, trembling and watery-eyed and scurrying towards her on the dusty flooring of the Shrieking Shack.

Trying to shake the image from her mind, Darcy grabs her watch off her nightstand, checking the time quickly. Dawn is breaking now, and she knows that she will not be able to fall back asleep with her stomach aching, only to be woken in a few hours by Petunia. She slides out of bed, taking care to make it before doing anything else. When she’s finished, Darcy settles in the rickety chair before her desk and looks down at the letter she means to send Lupin once Max comes home from hunting. She’s thankful that Max has been able to deliver letters at all—Petunia had been furious upon finding out Darcy had bought an owl, and Vernon had tried to strike her fingers with a cane, but she’d been too quick for him and it only licked the backs of her thighs.

_I’ll take the Knight Bus to your house. Please promise you will not come to my house if you value my life at all. I have to let Petunia know I’ll be leaving—she’ll be thrilled, but probably not as much as Vernon will be. Also, please have food on standby—I’m starving and I don’t think I’ve been full since the end of year feast. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Please don’t worry, though_ — _I’m alive for the time being. See you soon._

_Yours,_

_Darcy_

She begins to clean off her desk, disposing of old newspapers that have moving pictures of Sirius Black in them. Underneath the pile of papers are her N.E.W.T. results, and she looks at them again for a moment before folding them up and sticking them in her top dresser drawer.

Darcy’s N.E.W.T. results had come earlier than she’d expected just a week and a half after she’d returned to Privet Drive, delivered by a handsome tawny owl that sent the caged Max into a state of distress. She had allowed Max out of his cage to nuzzle against her before doing anything with the letter. Darcy’s hands had trembled when she opened the envelope, and Harry asked her to read her grades outloud, something Darcy was quite glad to do.

“Outstandings in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Charms,” Darcy had said with a wide grin, as Harry had sat on her bed, looking through all of her photographs. “An E for Transfiguration and Herbology, and an A in Ancient Runes. Ah—I was never really good at that class anyway.” Still, the grades are better than she could have hoped for, even if Darcy’s still unsure as to how she had received an O in Potions after everything she’d said and done to Snape at the end of the school year. Part of her had wished she could compare grades with her friends, just to see how she’s done compared to them, but she’ll have to wait until the World Cup.

She had been hoping to see much more of her friends over the summer, as well, but between Gemma starting classes at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and attending several fundraisers for the hospital hosted by her mother and father, (“Sorry, Darcy, but you’re better off with the Dursleys than with my parents.”), Emily starting her internship for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (“They’ve been working me non-stop, but I can’t say I’m disappointed.”), and Carla off in Borneo with her family visiting her sister (“We won’t be back until the World Cup, but I’ll see you then.”), Lupin seems her last ditch effort to leave this house that surely must be Hell.

Despite the congratulatory letters Darcy had sent her friends, and despite her happiness that her friends have been quite successful in the Wizarding World following their final year, she also can’t help feeling slightly bitter about it all. While her friends, except Carla, are starting careers and adjusting just fine, Darcy feels useless sitting around the house, feeling hungry all the time, waiting to go back to Hogwarts instead of finding a real job like Emily had urged. She hasn’t voiced these concerns to anyone,  not even Harry, so Darcy knows part of it is that she’s been stewing and basking in these emotions, but she’s ashamed of them, so she keeps them to herself. Though Darcy is sure Harry has noticed her change in personality—if she has, he surely has. She doesn’t want to say anything to Lupin, either—who had once told her she should go into the Ministry—and Darcy feels that telling Sirius would only make her want to be with him—if it’s possible—even more.

The only thing that has really kept her going are her infrequent letters to Sirius. He had replied very quickly to her first letter, much faster than she’d thought, and the letter was just what Darcy had expected. For nearly a foot of parchment, Sirius had gone back and forth between complete outrage at how the Dursleys have been treating she and Harry the past years, and then he had adopted an apologetic tone (or so it seemed), in which Sirius wrote over and over again about how sorry he was he had ever given her up—but his apologies are somewhat satisfying to Darcy, even though she would never admit it out loud. Sirius’s sympathy for Darcy, along with his rage towards the Dursleys, makes her feel that she has a good reason as to why she isn’t adjusting well to the Wizarding World, but the best thing about all of it is the scribbled farewell at the bottom of Sirius’s letter—

_All of my love,_ it says. Darcy smiles every time she rereads the letter. She hopes, when Hedwig returns with his reply in the next few days, he’ll have signed the letter with the same heartwarming farewell.

Though there is one thing about Privet Drive that seems to improve—Petunia has managed to keep Darcy out of the house and away from Vernon as much as possible, not that she’s been trying to get near him. Whenever Vernon sees her, Darcy notices the well-worn vein throbbing in his temple, his face purple, bursting to ask, “ _Why don’t you just get a job?”_ Though Darcy finds it difficult to tell Vernon that she does have a job set for the fall because each time she opens her mouth in reply, one of two things happen—either Petunia snatches her away just in time, or Vernon’s heavy hand collides with Darcy’s cheek in frustration, making her cheek sting and her eyes water for a few seconds before Vernon waves her away. Regardless, Vernon mutters a lot under his breath, and Darcy catches words like “freeloader” and “pathetic” and “unemployed” quite often. Every time one of these words is uttered, Darcy’s longing for the comforts of Lupin’s home is increased tenfold.

However, there are perks associated with Petunia’s unusual desire to keep Darcy and Vernon separated. For instance, one Sunday morning after Max’s hooting wakes Vernon and he just about kicks Darcy’s door in, Petunia decides to bring Darcy to the market in order to appease both parties. In thirteen long years, Petunia has never once brought Darcy along with her to any kind of market, and Darcy is quite glad to get out of arm’s reach of her uncle. It takes Darcy a little while to get ready, because Petunia rejects two of her outfits before Darcy finally puts on an old blouse and skirt that Emily had given her two years previously. Petunia looks her over before leaving, gives a curt nod with her lips pursed, and she and Darcy leave the house.

The car ride is silent, and Darcy feels strange when she suddenly realizes she’s never been in the car while Petunia is driving. She keeps the radio off, and when Darcy asks to turn it on, Petunia snaps at her to be quiet. Darcy obliges, and the rest of the car ride—which turns out to be about a half hour, and Darcy’s sure Petunia has chosen a market further away to avoid seeing people she knows—is completely silent save for the rumbling of Vernon’s car.

But the market is unlike anything Darcy has ever seen, and she instantly falls in love. Petunia brings her inside of a large building that reminds Darcy of Kings Cross with its high ceilings and the bustling of people, barely looking up at others. Between the sights and smells, Darcy can’t think of a place she would like to be more. Petunia shops for food—fresh vegetables and meat for their dinners, fresh fruit for breakfasts. There are food stalls where enthusiastic cooks slap fresh fish and meat onto steaming grills, and Darcy feels weak with hunger. She thinks she must be dreaming it, but Petunia buys her an ice cream when Darcy’s stomach rumbles audibly.

But there’s more than food, as well—some vendors sell antiques, laid out on thin cloths and doilies, polished and ready to be displayed on someone else’s shelf; other stalls have colorful flowers that catch Darcy’s attention, and a young florist a few years older than Darcy gives her a single sunflower, smiling all the while until Petunia grabs her wrist, dragging her away and taking the sunflower from her; a few other stalls sell homemade crafts and decor. One of Darcy’s favorite is a stall where hundreds of pieces of jewelry hang—necklaces with rough cut stones, handmade by the looks of them, simple looking rings with a single stone set in the middle, usually some shade of purple or turquoise.

“Aunt Petunia, could I have a necklace, please?” Darcy asks, fingering a necklace with purple gems on it, knowing what Petunia’s answer will likely be.

“What do you need a necklace for?” Aunt Petunia barks. However, she does move closer to the one Darcy is looking at. She scrunches her nose. “What do you want that one for, anyway? Come on.”

Darcy frowns and looks at the stall owner, hanging the necklace back up. “I think it’s lovely,” she whispers, and Darcy follows Petunia away from the stall.

Holding two bags of fresh vegetables, Darcy returns to the car with Petunia—also carrying a few bags—a little while later as it begins to rain outside. The car ride home is silent again for about ten minutes, except for the sound of the windshield wipers, until Darcy takes advantage of it just being the two of them, clearing her throat. Petunia doesn’t really notice, and Darcy plows on. “Aunt Petunia, would it be okay if I went to Emily’s for a week coming up?”

“How will you be getting there?” Petunia asks shortly.

“Er—I thought I’d take the bus.” Darcy looks away, her cheeks pink. She doesn’t think Petunia will expect her not to be at Emily’s, considering the fact Darcy usually stays at Emily’s over the summer. But she also is loathe to tell Petunia where she’s really going. For some reason, she doesn’t think Petunia will allow her to ever leave the house again if she found out Darcy’s really planning on staying with Lupin.

“Fine.”

Darcy and Harry spend a lot of their time together when Petunia doesn’t have Darcy pulling weeds or watering the garden, cooking meals or else deep cleaning the house. Harry much prefers the comfort of Darcy’s bedroom, being slightly bigger than his, and while Darcy lays in bed and reads, Harry writes letters or eats food his friends have sent, or talks aimlessly of Hogwarts and the World Cup. Darcy hums in agreement, not really paying attention, and sometimes laughs when Harry pauses after making a joke or a witty comment. Other times, they play chess together, or else Muggle cards, as Exploding Snap is sure to get Vernon riled up.

Sometimes, when Darcy can’t sleep, she watches television in the dead of night while everyone is asleep. She keeps the volume down, but she doesn’t really need it to watch the game show that comes on every night, without fail, at two in the morning. But Darcy sometimes regrets these nights when her alarm clock goes off at six in the morning, and she forces herself out of bed and into the kitchen, cutting grapefruit and setting the table for the rest of the household, while Petunia scrubs the refrigerator and stove noisily.

But besides that, the start of summer isn’t so bad. She corresponds regularly with her friends, as regularly as possible with Sirius, and as the days lead up to Darcy’s departure from Privet Drive, her mood becomes slightly better better. The prospect of being in a house where she’s wanted is enticing, and Darcy daydreams about eating real meals again with Lupin at her side. It all sounds too good to be true, and Darcy wonders if she’ll ever want to leave after experiencing something so wonderful.

Lupin sends her one last letter before she leaves for the week. It’s short and sweet, giving her the address of his home once more so the Knight Bus will be able to take her there, several sweet things about how badly he’s missed her company, and his promise to make up for all the days she’s had to be at Privet Drive. Darcy doesn’t bother to reply, seeing as she’ll likely arrive before Max does. Darcy leaves the letter on her desk, glancing at it every so often and letting it warm her heart.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Darcy asks Harry the day before she’s due to leave, as she folds a few outfits and packs them in her trunk. The contents that had filled it previously are scattered all over her room—school robes and uniforms, her cauldron, books, and even an envelope full of pictures from her years at Hogwarts. “If you’d rather I stay here with you, I don’t mind writing to—”

“Darcy,” Harry interrupts with a dramatic eye roll. “It’s one week. I’ll be fine. I’ve done this before.”

“Okay,” Darcy sighs, packing a bit more slowly now. Then she stops and turns around, holding a shirt in her hands. “If you’re uncomfortable with this, please say so—I won’t go if you don’t want me to—”

“Darcy,” Harry says again, this time looking exasperated. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, but if something happens, write to me right away,” she insists, squeezing onto the shirt she’s holding. “I’m leaving Max here—he’ll know where to go to find me.” Max gives an indignant hoot, as if expecting to be brought along. Darcy sighs and approaches his cage, sticking her finger through it and allowing Max to give her an affectionate nip. “Sorry, Max. Maybe next time. As long as you promise not to peck his fingers.”

“I’m not going to write to you, even if Voldemort forces his way into this house,” Harry chuckles, but Darcy gives him a scathing look, not finding his joke funny in the slightest. “Just relax, would you? Everything will be fine.”

Darcy decides to have breakfast with Harry before leaving the following day. She puts her packed trunk by the front door, scarfing down her small piece of grapefruit, her stomach rumbling. Breakfast is a quiet affair today, and Vernon breaks the silence by lowering his newspaper and asking gruffly, “Where did you say you were going?”

“Emily’s,” Darcy lies, keeping her eyes on her plate.

Vernon grumbles something and returns to his paper.

Harry is the only one to bid her goodbye that morning. He gives her a big hug as she reminds him about feeding Max—what he can and can’t have, as if he’s a child instead of an owl— and telling Harry to keep out of trouble and to _definitely_ write her if Voldemort kicks down the door. Harry laughs and pushes her away, and Darcy hesitates in the threshold for a moment. “Harry,” she sighs, frowning and making a grab for his hand. “I mean—are you absolutely positive that this is okay with you? You—you have always been the only boy I’ve ever needed and I—”

“Please don’t make it awkward,” he pleads, pulling his hand away from her and flashing her a weak smile. “Just go—you deserve it. You won’t want to come back.”

Darcy inhales deeply and nods, feeling suddenly very foolish standing there with tears in her eyes. Visiting Emily had always been exciting and Darcy had always counted down the days until she was back at the Duncan household, but she’s never left Harry for another man’s house—another man who she loves. She had thought that her love for Lupin would make the summer easier—make it more exciting to leave Privet Drive, but she only feels like she’s betraying her brother, the only other boy she’s truly loved.

Forcing herself to turn around, Darcy drags her trunk down the garden path and to the end of the drive. She looks back at Harry, but he only smiles and waves goodbye, closing the door and retreating back into the house. Darcy continues all the way down the street, to a more secluded part where there are less prying eyes, and glancing around the road once more, holds up her right hand.

The Knight Bus arrives in front of her almost immediately, accompanied with the loud _BANG_ as per usual. She finds herself smiling up at the purple bus, her heart jumping nervously in her throat at the thought of being with Lupin so soon.

Stan Shunpike, the conductor—a boy about Darcy’s age—jumps down from the Knight Bus, opening his mouth wide to give his usual speech. But at the sight of Darcy, his mouth curls into a smile and he bows deeply and dramatically, taking off his purple hat to reveal a thick head of stringy brown hair. He stands back up to his full height, at a height with Darcy, and helps lift her trunk into the bus. “Good to see you again, Darcy.”

Darcy takes the steps into the Knight Bus, looking around. For the most part, the bottom level is empty, but she can hear some voices coming from the floor overhead. She falls into a wobbly and dangerous looking armchair, sighing heavily. Darcy hadn’t been able to sleep last night with her brain tossing out ridiculous ways of how this could go wrong, plus her appetite kept her up. Darcy had even chanced a look in the refrigerator while everyone slept, but there wasn’t anything in there to snack on—Petunia clearly had expected Dudley to sneak into the refrigerator, as well. The armchair isn’t as comfortable as her bed at Hogwarts had been, but it’s a close runner up, and Darcy closes her eyes when Stan brings her trunk over, slamming it down on the ground and causing her eyes to snap open. Darcy isn’t quite bothered—she knows it’ll be impossible to get actual sleep on the Knight Bus. She rummages around inside of her trunk for some money to give him.

“Where to, Darcy?” Stan asks, pocketing the Sickels she holds out for him.

“Yorkshire,” she mutters, giving Stan the full address. “How many stops?”

“Yorkshire?” Stan asks again, narrowing his eyes at her. Darcy looks at his own face, but it hasn’t changed much—his face is still pimply and oily, and his upper lip has some dark peach fuzz growing there, as if he can’t grow any real facial hair, but is trying anyway. “S’not where your blonde friend lives, innit? What’s waitin’ in Yorkshire that you’re so eager to get to? Don’t tell me you got a boyfriend?”

“What does it matter to you?” Darcy replies, raising one of her eyebrows and smiling. She feels her cheeks turning pink and, at this, Stan seems to get his answer.

“I always thought we had somefink, and now ‘ere I find out you’re someone else’s girlfriend!” Stan explains, making Darcy blush even more furiously at the thought of what Lupin would think if he knew someone referred to her as his girlfriend. “You can’t tell me we didn’t ‘ave chemistry!”

Darcy laughs out loud, busying herself by examining her nails closely. It’s then that she notices her middle finger on her right hand is slightly swollen from when Vernon had smacked her across the fingers for Max’s incessant hooting a few nights ago. She lowers her hands into her lap. “I don’t think so.”

And so the Knight Bus begins to tear through the countryside, through dry hills and city streets and even crossing a highway once. It shuffles Darcy around in her armchair, makes a few stops as other witches and wizards come down from the upper levels, green in the face, to get off at their stop. She stares out the window as the bus starts off again, and within no time at all, Stan calls, “Yorkshire, Darcy!”

Darcy gets to her feet, feeling suddenly very nauseous. Butterflies flutter in her stomach, and Stan helps carry her trunk off the bus, laying it at her feet. The Knight Bus has brought her to what seems to be an open field, the only neighbors are large trees that sway in the breeze. The grass tickles Darcy’s legs, not tended to. Straight ahead, down a gravelly path, is a small cottage that briefly reminds Darcy of the Burrow. The outside looks to be falling apart, in shambles, but there’s smoke rising from the chimney, and there are lights on inside, and if there is anything she has learned after staying at the Burrow a few times, it’s that you can’t judge a house by the outside.

Stan bids Darcy goodbye, attempting to kiss her cheek, and Darcy moves away from him so quickly she surprises even herself. There’s a loud _BANG_ as the Knight Bus takes off again, leaving Darcy alone. Darcy drags her trunk down the rocky path, listening to the crunch of gravel beneath her shoes. Birds are chirping and singing all around her, filling her with a sense of peace. She smiles at the cottage, relief flooding her—relief at being away from Privet Drive, away from Vernon, with someone who loves her. And despite the overgrown garden and wild lawn, Darcy thinks this may well be her new favorite place in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

The door to the cottage opens before Darcy reaches it. At the sight of him in the threshold, leaning against the door frame—looking effortlessly cool and making her knees weak—Darcy comes to an abrupt halt. A smile of relief spreads on her face, and Lupin gives her a small smile in return before walking towards her. She admires, for a moment, how  _ casual _ he looks, how natural and relaxed he looks instead of being dressed in semi-professional wear or robes. Even in the warm summer air, Lupin wears a thin shirt, the long sleeves bunched up halfway up his forearms. 

Before she has the chance to offer a breathy greeting, Lupin wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest. “You’re all right,” he murmurs into her hair. 

Darcy slowly wraps her arms around his neck, slightly perplexed. “Of course I’m all right,” she answers, pulling away from him and letting her hands linger upon his shoulders before lowering them. She continues to smile up at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Here, let me help you with this.”

She expects Lupin to pick her trunk up himself, but instead he takes his wand out and waves it lazily. This surprises Darcy, as being at Privet Drive and having to hide magic from the Dursleys has sometimes made her forget she can use magic whenever she wants over the summer. Darcy’s trunk floats behind them as they walk back to the cottage. 

As Darcy and Lupin cross over the threshold inside, she’s hit with an overwhelming smell of food—of real food. Sure enough, he’s prepared food just as she’s asked, and many of the foods she’s been dreaming about—she can distinctly smell the savory smell of bacon and hears it sizzling in a pan. Darcy feels a rush of gratitude towards Lupin for this gesture.

The inside of the cottage is very different from the outside. While the outside is crumbling and dirty, the inside is warm and in a state of repair, it seems. A large fireplace big enough for both Darcy and Lupin to stand in comfortably is the first thing Darcy notices, and the warmth from the fireplace washes over her. Set in front of the hearth is a long sofa, angled to face the window and, to Darcy’s surprise, a television, which is turned on to a news station at low volume. There’s another armchair in the corner of the room, not at all matching with the sofa. The few windows let in a generous amount of light, and Darcy is glad to see Lupin still relies on electricity instead of candles and oil lamps like at Hogwarts. She turns around to view the small kitchen, complete with sink, stove, refrigerator, and oven—bacon and sausages cook in pans on the stove, the source of the delicious smell, and opposite the counters against the wall is a decent island with three stools pushed into it. Beyond the living area is another room, presumably the bedroom and bathroom. 

Darcy looks around the room once more, and then turns to Lupin, who rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat, not meeting her eyes. “Like I said, it’s— it’s not a whole lot, but I was able to fix it a bit with the salary Dumbledore was paying me—he was quite generous, but—”

“I love it,” she says breathlessly, not looking away from him. Darcy’s eyes then take in Lupin’s appearance. His hair is different—that’s the first thing she notices. Usually rather shaggy, it has grown out a little in the time since they’ve last seen each other. It falls into his eyes in earnest now, and Lupin continues to push it back out of his face, giving his head a shake to get it out of his eyes. Coarse hair, light brown and flecked with gray, covers his face, trimmed and even compared to the usually patchy beard he typically wore over the last year due to tiredness. 

Finally, Lupin looks at her in the face again. His eyes sweep over her, and Darcy is suddenly very conscious of how she must look. She forces her hand at her side, almost instinctively raising it to her left cheek, where there’s still some light bruising. Her fingers are a little bruised, and Darcy curses herself for wearing a dress that reveals the back of her thighs, where welts are still present from a few days prior. She’s also very aware that she must look severely underfed—she normally does after every summer, just not as badly—and sickly. Darcy blushes thinking about her appearance, and finds herself inwardly hoping her embarrassment will at least put  _ some _ color back into her face.

“You look—” Lupin stops himself, his eyes settling on her bruised cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His fingertips brush against the bruise on her cheek, but Darcy stops him. Lupin frowns, lowering his hand.

“It wasn’t as bad as it usually is,” Darcy admits sheepishly, her stomach growling. “It doesn’t matter—I’m here now.”

“And Harry?”

“What about Harry?” she asks, hoping Lupin will forego the current topic for something more interesting—like the large amount of food currently waiting to be eaten. 

“Is he covered in bruises, as well?” Lupin says again, his voice lower. 

“No,” Darcy replies quickly and sternly. “No—Vernon doesn’t usually hit Harry.” When Lupin opens his mouth in answer, Darcy adds, “I’d rather not talk about this right now.”

Lupin hesitates, but closes his mouth. When Darcy’s stomach roars again, this time louder than ever, he seems to remember the food he’s been cooking. “You must be hungry—your letters worried me—have you had breakfast?”

“I’m starving,” Darcy sighs loudly, and Lupin smiles at her as she takes a seat at one of the stools at the island.

Lupin loads her plate with all kinds of food—eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, fruit (however, tired of fruit for breakfast, she shakes her head and Lupin dumps it back into a bowl with a laugh). They sit together at the island, and between mouthfuls of food, Darcy tells Lupin all about the diet Dudley had been put on, how she and Harry had only kept from starving by eating mostly candy leftover from their time at Hogwarts. Darcy eats three platefuls of food, still eating long after Lupin is done, yet he sits patiently until she’s finished, listening all the while. 

“I would have sent you food had you asked,” Lupin finally says, taking her empty plate to the sink rinsing it off. 

Darcy waves an impatient hand, feeling very full and tired. “It wasn’t a big deal.” Her stomach begins to ache, not having eaten so much for a little while now. Darcy tries to remember when her last real, true meal had been that hadn’t left her feeling hungrier. All she can think of is the end of the year feast—but here, sitting with Lupin and eating food that he’d cooked for her, is better than any feast she’s ever had at Hogwarts. 

Lupin looks at her, shaking his head. “It’s a big deal to me, Darcy.” He suddenly looks around wildly. “You didn’t bring Max?”

“No,” she says. “I thought it would be kinder to leave him with Harry. You know—just to save your fingers and all that.” Darcy yawns, rubbing her face with her palms. “Can we sit on something more comfortable?”

Nodding, Lupin gets to his feet. Darcy follows him to the sofa and as soon as she sits down, she melts into it, not having realized how exhausted she is. He picks up the day’s newspaper and Darcy recognizes Fudge on the front page, seemingly yelling, though the photograph is silent. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Darcy,” he says, looking sideways at her. 

“Me too. I missed you.”

Darcy makes herself more comfortable, draping her legs over Lupin’s lap, and within seconds, she’s asleep. 

* * *

Darcy sleeps most of the first day, occasionally opening her eyes just a tiny bit whenever she hears a noise. Lupin moves around the house quite a bit—she wakes once to find a blanket draped over her, and she wakes again when Lupin fumbles with some pans in the sink. Each times her eyes flutter open, the sun is lower and lower in the sky, but Lupin never shakes her awake or speaks to her—he allows her to sleep as long as she wants, until dinner, that is, and Darcy wakes when he whispers into her ear.

“Are you hungry, sweetheart?”

Darcy opens her eyes, looking into his face, so close to her’s. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. “Yes,” she says. “Very.”

Lupin fills a plate with pork chops and gravy, roasted potatoes, and string beans, letting her eat on the sofa in front of the television. He joins her, and they eat in silence, watching a sitcom with a laugh track that Darcy’s never seen before. It’s a comfortable silence, and there’s a sort of freedom present that unsettles her. At Privet Drive, Darcy would never be allowed to eat such copious amounts of food while watching the television, nor would she be allowed to sleep on the sofa as long as she pleased. Even at Emily’s home, Mr. and Mrs. Duncan are always around—one or the other—checking in on Darcy and Emily and making sure they’re doing something. While Mr. Duncan had always been perfectly satisfied with the two of them sitting in front of the television all day, Mrs. Duncan had always preferred the girls to go do  _ something.  _

“I forgot to ask,” Lupin says suddenly, breaking Darcy’s train of thought and lowering his fork from his mouth. “How did your N.E.W.T.’s turn out?”

“Three Outstandings—Defense Against the Dark Arts—”

“—obviously—”

“—Potions and Charms. Exceeds Expectations for Transfiguration and Herbology, and an Acceptable for Ancient Runes.”

“Your mother was exceptionally good at Charms,” Lupin grins, returning to his dinner. “Did you know that?”

“No,” Darcy shrugs, stuffing her mouth with string beans. “Almost everything I know about my parents, I know from you.” Then she remembers something, and Darcy puts her plate on the table, turning in her seat to face him. “Petunia showed me a picture at the beginning of the summer.”

“Of what?”

“She said it was the last picture my mother sent to her,” Darcy explains, remembering it fondly. “It was of my parents—you’re in it, and Sirius, and—Pettigrew was in it, too.”

“He  _ was _ ?”

“I tore the picture so he isn’t in it anymore,” Darcy replies quickly. “And I’m in it—I’m laying in Sirius’s lap.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I miss him so much.”

“I know you do.”

Darcy falls asleep on the sofa again after dinner. It’s nice to sleep, even if her dreams are invaded by Peter Pettigrew, the one face that she hates more than Snape’s. But this time, Lupin wakes her close to midnight, running his fingers through her hair to do so. Darcy wakes almost immediately, nuzzling into his palm when he touches her cheek.

“Come on, love,” he breathes, taking her hand and attempting to pull her off the sofa. “Come sleep in the bed.”

Drowsy and groggy, and still—incredibly—sleepy, Darcy allows Lupin to pull her into the back bedroom. She barely has time to register the room and what’s inside of it, climbing into the bed without getting undressed. Lupin covers her with the blankets and, for a split second, Darcy’s heart begins to race, thinking Lupin will slide into bed beside her, but he only places a very soft kiss to her temple and leaves the room, and when she wakes again come morning, it doesn’t seem as if the other side of the bed has been disturbed at all. 

Lupin’s waiting for her, already dressed, the smell of coffee lingering in the air. Darcy walks dreamily towards him and the smell at the kitchen counter, taking a steaming mug from Lupin’s outstretched hand. “Sleep well?”

“Did you?” she asks, glancing towards the sofa, where there isn’t any evidence he’s slept there, either. “You didn’t come to bed last night.”

Lupin considers her, the corner of his mouth twitching very slightly. He looks at her over the rim of his coffee mug, and doesn’t speak until he sets it back on the counter. “Was I supposed to?”

Darcy blushes. “Can we go to Diagon Alley today?” she asks, avoiding Lupin’s gaze and wide grin. “I need to go to Gringotts.”

“Of course. Let me know when you’re ready.”

Darcy takes her time getting ready. Without the impatient tapping of Petunia’s foot, it’s relaxing to move at her own pace. Lupin waits patiently for her, and doesn’t ask her once to hurry up—in fact, he doesn’t pester her once, except once, when he sticks his head into the bathroom while she’s in the shower, asking if she wants breakfast. Privately, Darcy wishes he would join her, but part of her is glad he doesn’t—completely naked, Darcy notices old, partially healed bruises that have been hiding under her clothes. 

Upon exiting the bathroom, Darcy dresses quickly and takes advantage of being shut inside Lupin’s bedroom. She looks around the room, careful not to riffle through anything that may be too personal. The room is just a little bigger than his bedroom at Hogwarts, and much more decorated with personal effects. There are several photographs on the dresser—some in frames, and a small stack beside them—and Darcy smiles at a few well-worn Gryffindor items hanging on one of the blank walls. It reminds her very much of she and Harry’s bedrooms back in Privet Drive. Darcy picks up one of the framed photographs—this picture is of four boys, arms thrown around their shoulders, shuffling awkwardly together and flashing winning smiles at the camera and up at Darcy.

The boy on the end looks so much like Harry—but not. His hair is exactly the same, untidy, dark, and thick, and his glasses occasionally slide down the bridge of his nose, but he pushes them up with his free hand. Beside James is Sirius, just as he looks in all the old photos she’s seen of him—handsome and almost haughty looking, high cheekbones and a straight nose. Sirius’s arm is wrapped right around Lupin’s neck—shaggy, sandy colored hair desperately in need of a comb, smiling broadly. And beside Lupin is Pettigrew—fleshy and blond, nervous looking and very small when compared with the three others boys. 

“Darcy, love, are you dressed?”

Darcy jumps at the sound of Lupin’s muffled voice. Still looking at the photograph, Darcy answers, “Yes.”

Lupin opens the door and quickly spots Darcy looking at the photograph. She replaces it on the dresser and picks up another loose picture. This one is just of Lupin, a teenager, seated in what looks to be the Gryffindor common room, homework and books spread out on the table, reminding Darcy very much of Hermione. Every so often, the Lupin in the photograph looks up at the camera, offering a weak and tired smile before going back to his parchment, writing very quickly. The adult Lupin appears at Darcy’s shoulder, looking at the photograph.

“You were very handsome,” Darcy notes, smiling up at him before looking back at the picture. 

Lupin laughs, snatching the picture from her hands. “You better stick to that story,” he teases, examining the picture closely. “N.E.W.T. year. Peter took this one.”

“Let me see it again.” 

Lupin holds it out of her reach, raising his eyebrows. “You’re looking at the real thing,” Lupin says with a toothy grin. “Am I suddenly not good enough for you now that you’ve seen a picture of me at my prime?”

Darcy stops grabbing for the picture, throwing her wet hair over her shoulder. “Just something to think about when I fall asleep tonight.”

“Cheeky.” Lupin shakes his head. “Come have breakfast, love.”

They eat a quick breakfast; Darcy shovels food into her mouth, not leaving much room for conversation. As she continues to eat as much as she can, Darcy finds her thoughts wandering to Harry. She wonders what breakfast was at Privet Drive this morning, wonders if Harry is starving, dreaming of a breakfast such as she is eating. Darcy lowers her silverware and pushes her plate away, suddenly very disgusted with herself. Lupin notices her half-empty plate, however, and tilts his head.

“Was it all right?” 

“Do you think Harry’s all right?”

A crease appears between Lupin’s eyebrows and he combs his hair back with his fingers. “I’m sure he’s all right,” Lupin answers slowly. “He’d send you a letter if he needed you. He knows you’re here, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, I know—he does, but—I’ve never done anything like this before and I—I don’t want him to think that, well—”

“Darcy,” Lupin interrupts, looking apologetic. “You don’t have to be here, you know that, right? You’re not my hostage—if you want to go back to Harry, I won’t stop you. But I want you to know that I’d miss you terribly.”

“No—! No, I just—this is wonderful. I want to be here—with you.” Darcy sighs heavily, looking down at her plate, but it only makes her nauseous. She looks back up at Lupin, but his back is to her as he cleans up the mess he’s made while making breakfast. “I know you asked him if it was all right to see me. He told me, you know.”

Lupin looks over his shoulder at her just long enough for Darcy to see the faint blush that’s crept up his face, making his cheeks pink. She smiles, her heart melting, knowing that she has the ability to make a grown man flush. “I thought it would be easier to ask Harry than Sirius,” he admits finally. 

This gives Darcy pause. “What do you think Sirius would say?” she asks quietly, and Lupin stops cleaning, turning around again and leaning against the counter. “I haven’t told him.”

“Nor have I, though we haven’t been writing regularly as I’m sure you are,” Lupin sighs. He digs his hands deep into his pockets, thinking hard for a moment. “I don’t see a reason why Sirius should know about, er—what we’ve done. Though, I think he noticed our— _ closeness _ —when we were all in the Shrieking Shack.”

“He suspects something,” Darcy says indifferently, remembering their conversation as they had all walked through the tunnel towards the Whomping Willow a few weeks ago. “He mentioned something about us being close—and then the first letter he sent me, it said—” It’s Darcy’s turn to blush now. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

“He said nothing?”

“He said something, but it’s—can we go now?” Darcy feels very hot and uncomfortable, despite the light clothing she has on. 

“Of course,” Lupin smiles. “We can Apparate, or if you’re more comfortable with Floo Powder, we—”

“No!” Darcy interjects quickly, remembering her first time using Floo Powder. It had been at the Burrow, incidentally, and Darcy had gone just after watching Mr. Weasley and Ron. The entire Weasley family had assured her that she was going to be all right, but Darcy hated the feeling of being licked by strangely cool flame, hated the feeling of being spun around and around and around, and especially hated being shot out of the Leaky Cauldron’s fireplace without warning. Darcy had swallowed enough ash that day to last her a lifetime, and when Harry had missed the correct fireplace, Darcy had lost control of herself. “We can Apparate.”

“Good,” Lupin shrugs. “Much cleaner.”

Fifteen minutes later, Darcy clutches onto Lupin’s arm as they turn on the spot just outside of the cottage. Still not used to it, despite having her license, the sensation makes her dizzy and unsteady once their feet meet the cobbled ground of Diagon Alley. Lupin holds onto her for a moment, and when Darcy regains her balance, they walk up to Gringotts.

So early in the summer, Diagon Alley doesn’t seem as busy as it normally does. Without students hustling and bustling up and down the streets, blocking shop window displays and doorways, its quite nice, despite the overcast, gray sky. Even the goblins at Gringotts get her down to her vault reasonably quickly, and after a few strange looks after her unusual request to trade some of her money for Muggle money, the goblin obliges her. 

With food in her stomach, money in her pocket, and Lupin’s hand in her’s, Darcy drags him from shop to shop. They spend hours window shopping, prowling through the apothecary, buying candy they’ve never tried before. They laugh together—Darcy can’t remember laughing while at Privet Drive—and share shy smiles and enjoy themselves. Darcy hardly lets go of his hand all day, relishing the feeling of his fingers occasionally lacing with her’s. For weeks she had craved his touch, had felt it only in dreams, and Darcy suddenly realizes how little contact they’ve had. She makes it a point to hold onto his arm or squeeze his hand as much as she can, and she gives him little distracted touches every so often. After a while, Lupin insists on stopping for Florean Fortescue’s for ice cream when it begins to drizzle. Even the sight of Florean lifts her spirits, and he brings Darcy her favorite ice cream sundae. 

“Where’s your brother today, Miss Potter?” Florean asks with a smile, returning with Lupin’s ice cream. 

“Home, sir,” Darcy tells him, digging into her ice cream. “You’ll see us both again at the end of the summer, I’m sure.”

“All right,” Florean says, and before turning he adds, “Make sure to keep all four legs on the ground, Potter.”

Everything goes well the rest of the day—the rain stops falling and the gloomy clouds keep the hot sun from beating on them. It’s freeing to be with Lupin and not have to worry about anyone seeing them—so far, Darcy hasn’t seen anyone she knows, but she doesn’t care anymore. Let others see them—let them see how much she cares about him, how much he cares about her. Let them see the way Lupin puts ugly and ridiculous sunglasses onto her face and laughs at her—let them see the way Lupin laughs loudly, acting as if he is a boy again. She wants people to see how happy this man makes her, and eventually, the chance comes while they’re looking at a cart full of books.

“We could read one,” Darcy suggests, pulling out a green book. The cover has a very handsome man on it with long hair, and a beautiful woman at his feet, her hair blowing in the wind. She turns it over, reading the back. “This looks promising. And very erotic.”

Lupin, in turn, holds up a book with a werewolf on the front, but Darcy has a feeling whoever drew the picture has never seen a werewolf in their life. He reads the back outloud. “ _ ‘A love story for the ages.’ _ ” Lupin eyes scan the rest of the synopsis and he raises his eyebrows and chuckles, placing it back where he’d found it. “Also erotic.”

“How fitting,” Darcy mumbles absentmindedly, pulling out another book without a title on it. She opens it to the middle of the book and something squirts from the pages, hitting her in the forehead. “Ew—what the hell was that?” 

The man behind the cart apologizes profusely. “I’m sorry—I should have warned you—”

Lupin waves his wand quickly, making the gooey liquid disappear from her face. He laughs, putting his wand away. 

“Do I want to know what that was?” she asks the man warily. 

He frowns. “Probably not.”

Darcy looks back at Lupin, brushing her hair out of her face and smiling at him. She takes his hand in her’s again and he gives it a gentle squeeze. “Is it gone? Do I look all right?”

“Beautiful as—”

“Potter!”

Both Darcy and Lupin turn around quickly, and at the sight of Professor McGonagall, Darcy is so surprised that she only lets go of Lupin’s hand when McGonagall’s eyes flick down to them. Darcy feels her face turn red, and even Lupin has the decency to blush. Professor McGonagall smiles curtly at them both, approaching a little closer. 

“What are you doing here, Professor?” Darcy asks casually, trying her hardest not to look too ashamed. 

“I, like you, enjoy spending the summer out and about, Potter,” Professor McGonagall replies with a very small smile. “Believe it or not, we teachers have lives outside of Hogwarts.” She glances at Lupin. “Remus—how have you been? I was sorry to hear what happened.”

Lupin shrugs. “The truth would have come out eventually. Might as well have been at the end of the year.”

“Still…” McGonagall looks from Lupin to Darcy and back again, eyes glancing down to their hands again to see the backs of their fingers brushing. “Congratulations, Potter—I don’t think I’ve told you. N.E.W.T. level Transfiguration is some of the most advanced magic that is taught at Hogwarts. An E is admirable.”

Darcy smiles. “It’s not an O,” she jests. “But I suppose my Transfiguration grade won’t matter where I’m going.”

“You can still get very far in a career with an E,” Professor McGonagall says, not unkindly. “Remus got an E in Transfiguration, as well. Had he been a little less busy pulling pranks with his friends, perhaps he could have scraped an O.”

To Darcy’s surprise, Lupin laughs, seemingly ten years younger. “I don’t think it matters much,” he teases, grinning down at Darcy. “Not a single job I’ve ever held has been determined by my Transfiguration N.E.W.T.”

The three make small talk for a few more minutes before Professor McGonagall checks a pocketwatch and makes to leave. Lupin suggests they leave soon, as well, if they want time to eat dinner. Darcy watches after McGonagall, wishing she had the ability to read minds, if only to know what she’d really been thinking upon seeing them holding hands. 

Lupin takes her hand again, laces their fingers together, and brings Darcy back to her senses. She looks up at him, waiting for him to take the lead and Disapparate.  “Did you hear me, Darcy?” he asks, chuckling. “Where are you?”

“I’m here—what?”

“Nothing,” he says, but Darcy doesn’t quite believe him. Though, by his sly smile, she doesn’t think he’s going to repeat himself. “Are you ready, love?”

Darcy nods, and within seconds, feels her feet leave Diagon Alley. 


	3. Chapter 3

Darcy has a hard time remembering the last time she’s done normal things. Emily had always thought Darcy a little strange for getting excited about going places—the theater, the library, the grocery, the lake—but Emily never understood. Years of being cooped up at Privet Drive without being able to go out and do things—primarily because of a lack of Muggle money—leaves Darcy feelings restless. But now, here with Lupin, who is more than willing to do whatever Darcy pleases, it’s  _ exciting. _

The first place Darcy takes him is the market she’d visited with Aunt Petunia. It’s just as she remembers it—smelling of spices and flowers and perfume-like scents. It’s not as busy as it had been on that Sunday, but Darcy still is jostled around by hurried shoppers, their arms full of bags, pulling along young children or otherwise struggling under the weight of their shopping. All around, the building is full of colors and a nearby baker calls out to no one in particular as he displays fresh baguettes. There’s the kindly butcher, where Aunt Petunia had bought some lamb, and a leathery-skinned man replenishing his corn display with large, tough hands. 

Darcy buys all kinds of fresh food for dinner—she purchases meat from the butcher, bread from the baker, vegetables from the cheapest stand she can find. She buys a cookbook simply because the juicy steak on the cover looks so appealing. They peruse the antiques, and Lupin buys Darcy some sunflowers after the young florist remembers her. Darcy flushes a deep crimson as Lupin hands her the bouquet, but he hardly seems abashed. 

“No one’s ever bought me flowers before,” she admits to him sheepishly, admiring the sunflowers. “Thank you.”

“No?” Lupin asks innocently, slightly swinging one of Darcy’s bags of vegetables at his side. “You can’t have known many decent men, then.”

Darcy looks down at her feet, burning with embarrassment. “You  _ know _ I haven’t.”

“Oliver Wood never bought you flowers?” Lupin teases, earning him a playful swat to the arm. They both laugh. 

At one of the stalls, Darcy finds an old camera that the older gentleman selling it promises still works—he urges her to try it out to prove it. 

Darcy holds the camera up to her face, looking at Lupin. She presses the button and it flashes brightly in his face. Immediately, a photograph emerges, and Lupin grabs it, shaking it roughly and smiling down at it. He shows her, and Darcy beams at the photograph of Lupin—hair mussed up, a toothy grin on his face, cheekbones slightly tinted pink. For a moment, the adult Lupin in the picture reminds her of the teenage Lupin in the other pictures she’s seen, and Darcy snatches it from his hand, putting the camera down and digging in her pocket for some money. The man explains how to use and care for the camera, and Lupin watches on from behind, still smiling all the while.

Laden with trinkets and bags of food, Darcy decides to visit one last stall before leaving. It takes her a few minutes to find the right area, but once she does, Darcy runs to it. The woman recognizes her immediately, and her deep blue eyes flick from Darcy to Lupin and back again.

“You’re back,” the woman says, getting to her feet from a picnic chair behind a small table. “You’re the one that liked that purple one, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Darcy answers breathlessly, her heart racing for some reason. Her eyes follow the woman as she picks out the same necklace Darcy had been eyeing with Aunt Petunia. She suddenly feels almost rebellious—even though it’s a stupid feeling—for returning to buy something Petunia has refused her. “I love it. Can I buy it? How much is it?”

The woman nods, but doesn’t move back to the counter. “Was that your mum that was with you?” she asks bluntly, and Darcy blushes, not wanting to have this conversation in front of Lupin. 

“No,” Darcy says softly. “My aunt.”

The woman looks Darcy up and down. “Not a very nice woman, is she?”

Darcy blushes harder. “No, not really.”

“Take it,” the woman sighs. “Go on—I can make another. Besides, you said it was lovely, and that’s payment enough.”

“Oh!” Darcy gasps, already pulling out money for the woman. “No—I couldn’t possibly—”

“I insist—”

“I’ll pay for it,” says Lupin suddenly. Both Darcy and the woman look at him with very different expressions—Darcy is sure her feelings of gratitude manifest onto her face as a sort of dreamily smile, but the middle-aged woman is looking quite satisfied, as if this is the perfect solution. “Here—how much?”

Darcy leaves the market feeling incredibly light on her feet, the purple necklace hanging around her neck.

That night, Darcy and Lupin find a complicated recipe in her new cookbook and attempt to work through it without magic. It’s tricky, and they find they’re missing several ingredients, and Lupin cuts his finger accidentally while chopping carrots, but they laugh all the while, bumping into each other constantly and muttering apologies, hiding their flushed faces from each other. The finished dish looks nothing like the picture in the cookbook, but Darcy and Lupin eat it anyway, seated on the sofa watching the television, their legs tangled together. 

Darcy hopes that night, Lupin will finally crawl into bed with her, wrap his arms around her and fall asleep. She had known, however, when they had said goodnight, that Lupin was waiting for her to ask, judging by his smile. But Darcy had only blushed madly, unable to ask such a simple question, unable to utter a single request. It hits her as she lays in Lupin’s bed tonight how strange it is to be here, in his own home, to be so close to him without a wall between them, without having to worry about consequences. Darcy can’t help but to wonder why there seems to be an even bigger wall now—why hasn’t he kissed her? Why hasn’t he come to bed with her? But she can’t blame him—she hasn’t exactly made a move either, unless clinging to his hand for the better part of a day counts, and she doesn’t think it does. But why hasn’t she? Is that what Lupin is waiting for? A sign that she wants something to happen? Darcy thinks she’s been perfectly clear—she’s come to visit him, she’s held his hand, they’ve flirted with each other shamelessly (at this thought, butterflies erupt in Darcy’s stomach). 

But Lupin has usually waited for some sign from Darcy. He had only kissed her in earnest after she had kissed him first, had only slept with her after she’d made it clear she wanted it—after she had initiated it. Now that she thinks about it, Lupin has always been slightly hesitant with her, and she knows that he has good reason. She can’t imagine Sirius would take it well, the knowledge that one of his best and oldest friends is involved with his goddaughter. 

But Darcy knows that when she wakes in the morning, Lupin will still be here, so she allows herself to drift off to sleep, knowing there will be another day. 

The next day is just as exciting—even if it’s not  _ really. _ Darcy brings Lupin to a theater in London, near Emily’s home (though she doesn’t mention that to Lupin), where she and Emily used to see movies. Darcy falls asleep on his shoulder not fifteen minutes into it, her hands wrapped loosely around his forearm. He wakes her after the credits finish and the cramped theater lightens again and everyone has left, and he pulls her out by the hand, grinning at her.

It’s a dark and dismal day in London. It drizzles on and off as they walk the streets and window shop. Darcy shows him all of the places she and Emily would go as young kids—all the places Mr. Duncan took them for anything they wanted. In turn, Lupin shows Darcy places he’s familiar with, places his mother would take him as a child when he was in need of some cheering up.

Darcy loops her arm around his, and they slow their pace as it begins to sprinkle again. Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears. “Can I see you again?” she asks him after a few minutes’ silence. “Before I go back to Hogwarts? A week doesn’t seem long enough.”

“You know I would never turn down an opportunity to see you,” Lupin answers, giving her a reassuring smile and giving his head a quick shake to keep his hair out of his eyes. “You can come see me anytime you like.”

“Really?”

Lupin chuckles. “Really.”

Darcy smiles up at him, and a sudden thought occurs to her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, love.”

“Have you given any thought to Gemma’s offer?” Darcy says, looking up at him, trying to watch for a reaction. He doesn’t give much of one, only looks straight ahead, thoughtful. 

“I hope she hasn’t been bothering you on my account,” he jokes. Darcy shakes her head slowly and shrugs her shoulders. “I’ve thought about it—yes. Let me ask you something now.”

“Anything.”

“You trust Gemma? Completely?”

Darcy looks into Lupin’s face, meeting his eyes before looking back at the street. “I trust Gemma with my life,” Darcy replies honestly. “I know she would never hurt you if she could help it. She kept your secret all those months—she didn’t even tell  _ me. _ And she kept our secret after I—well, I mean—”

“How much did you tell her?” Lupin interrupts, narrowing his eyes at Darcy, but putting on a good natured smile. 

“Enough,” Darcy answers shortly. “Anyway, I think you should talk to Gemma more about it.”

“I greatly appreciate your advice, Darcy,” Lupin smirks. “But I can only promise I’ll think about some more—is that all right?”

“It’s your decision in the end,” Darcy says flatly, looking through a shop window at three mannequins dressed in the latest fashion. Darcy looks down at her own outfit, something Aunt Petunia had given her years ago—it had needed darned and the color is slightly faded, but Darcy has always been partial to the blouse and skirt. 

A particularly large and cold raindrop falls on the top of Darcy’s nose. She wipes it off quickly, but more begin to fall, and when she looks up to the gray sky, the drizzle has begun to turn into a downpour. The rain comes hard and fast, flattening Darcy’s red hair and making it stick to her cheeks and forehead. Lupin pushes his soaked hair back, laughing and holding his hands over his head as if that will keep him dry. Darcy looks up at him, as he watches the Muggles sharing the street around them opening umbrellas, holding their raincoats over their head, and darting into nearby buildings, or else ignoring the rain completely, as if this is such a typical things, it’s not worth their attention.

When Lupin’s hair falls in his face again, he combs it back once more with his fingers to no avail. Darcy watches him endearingly, smiling crookedly at him, as the rain continues to soak her clothes and chill her bones. She moves closer to him, snaking an arm around his middle, making to continue down the street; Lupin wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him, unable to keep his smile at bay. He doesn’t step with her, however; the two of them hesitate in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at each other through the rain. Retracting his arm from around her shoulders, Lupin slowly raises a hand to her face, trying to dry her cheeks with no success. Darcy nuzzles into his warm palm, closing her eyes at the feel of his skin against her’s. 

And without warning—without knowing it was going to happen now—Lupin kisses her hard, one hand tangled in her hair, holding the nape of her neck, his other hand brushing some of her hair off her cheek. Darcy nearly melts at his touch, kissing him back with a deep-seeded hunger, relishing the taste of his lips on her’s. Lupin kisses her for a long time in the center of several onlookers who try very hard to avoid looking at them, and then he finally pulls away, breathless and flushed and wet, looking into Darcy’s face for some kind of reaction. She only smiles, swaying on her feet for a few seconds, her chest heaving and eyes flicking from Lupin’s own eyes to his lips. 

Lupin takes her hand in his, squeezing tight. They splash through already deep puddles that soak their shoes, down a deserted alleyway between two restaurants, and Lupin pulls her behind a foul-smelling dumpster. He kisses her again, this time hurriedly and eagerly, and Darcy barely has time to register how un-romantic it is when Lupin whispers in her ear. “Hold onto me,” he says.

Darcy does as she’s told and feels herself almost immediately leave the alleyway, still clutching Lupin’s hand. The sensation of traveling through time and space is nothing compared to the hammering of her heart, the churning in her stomach. Before she can make sure all of her body parts have arrived with her to Lupin’s home, he’s kissing her again. Without separating, they both stumble over the threshold, laughing and nervous and bumping teeth and giving each other sloppy kisses. 

As Darcy’s lips travel up his jaw, Lupin smiles. “Why don’t we change into something more dry?”

It’s then that Darcy realizes how cold she is. Goosebumps run up and down her arms, and her hair is as soaked as if she’s just stepped out of the bath. Lupin raises his eyebrows and Darcy nods.

Lupin quickly grabs a traveling cloak, hanging on a nearby coat rack. He returns to Darcy, waiting at the door, soaking wet with her arms around herself. Her auburn hair looks dark, stuck to her damp and flushed face. She smiles weakly at him, and Lupin’s face softens. Lupin drapes the traveling cloak around her shoulders, and Darcy holds it tightly around her. She wonders, for a brief moment, why he hasn’t just dried them off with magic—but then she remembers how intimate it had been before, when Lupin has the chance to clean the wine off of her blouse, but chose to put her in his own clothes instead. Darcy certainly doesn’t want to lose that intimacy now, and she reaches out for his hand. Lupin takes it, pulling her gently towards the back room. 

Lupin doesn’t seem to bother changing into something dry. He stands off to the side as Darcy digs around in her trunk, trying to find something comfortable. But even as she pulls out an outfit and gets back to her feet, Darcy isn’t quite sure she’s ready to change yet. She clutches her clothes, and Lupin clears his throat. 

“I can—I’ll give you some space—I’ll be just out here, if you need me…”

“No,” Darcy whispers, and Lupin freezes, looking her up and down. “You can stay.”

She’s waited days for this—for a chance to love him, a chance to be with him. Darcy isn’t sure what she’d expected, but her dreams had been full of obscene images of him between her legs, propped above her. And suddenly, Darcy finds herself craving his touch, his kisses, his love—Darcy has never before craved someone like this. Just his company, just doing things with him, the little moments—eating dinner together, sitting in a comfortable silence, window shopping—have been enough to lift her spirits. But now she can’t get close enough to him, and the simple intimacies aren’t enough for her—instead of holding his hand or having breakfast together or sharing shy smiles, she wants  _ him.  _

Lupin’s eyes don’t leave her as Darcy throws her clean clothes to the side and slowly unbuttons her blouse, letting it fall to the ground at her feet. She slides her skirt down to her ankles and stands up straighter again, letting Lupin take in the appearance of her standing almost completely naked in front of him. His eyes find the scars on her shoulder, but don’t linger—eventually, Lupin’s eyes move slowly down the rest of her body, and he rubs at the beard on his face, looking into her eyes again. 

Telling herself to take it one step further, Darcy swallows, reaching up to undo the clasp on her bra, and she wriggles out of it. Her skin still damp and the cottage relatively cold without a fire going, goosebumps cover her stomach and chest, and Darcy suddenly wraps her arms around herself, making Lupin smile a small smile. Finally, he moves towards her, taking her wrists gently and lowering her hands from her chest. 

“You are so beautiful, Darcy,” he says, drinking in the sight of her once more. 

Darcy looks up at him and his fingertips whisper against her face before he kisses her deeply again. He drags his fingers lazily down her arms, settling his hands on her hips, squeezing. Lupin breaks the kiss far too soon. 

“I keep thinking this is a dream,” he whispers, giving the crook of her neck a tender kiss. “That I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone—that none of this will have been real.”

She smiles at him, kissing his lips again, allowing Lupin to back her towards the bed. When the backs of her thighs meet the mattress, Lupin helps her onto it, propping himself above her. “Remus?” she rasps as he kisses down her throat, and Lupin chuckles into her skin. 

“Yes, kitten?” he whispers, looking up at her with a smile that takes her breath away. 

Darcy hesitates, running her hands through his hair. “I love you.”

He only continues to smile at her for a moment before returning to peppering her body with kisses, slowly, tantalizingly. Every time she feels the tip of his tongue barely brush against her skin, it makes her squirm with pleasure, but he digs his fingers into her hips, keeping her still.

It’s better this time—not that it had been terrible the other two times they had done this. But without the lingering fear of consequences or repercussions, it’s almost freeing. She remembers how quiet they had been, how every content sigh seemed loud enough to wake the entire castle, to alert someone to their wrongdoing. They had touched each other with a slight sense of urgency and hesitancy, wanting to get it over with quickly without making it seem too rushed. And even though Lupin had spent more time loving her body than Oliver Wood ever had, Darcy had thought it couldn’t have been better—but she’s wrong. 

His kisses and touches seem to last for hours. He relishes her body, worships it, does things to her that Darcy didn’t know possible, makes her feel things she never knew she could feel. Lupin could continue throughout the whole night, Darcy thinks, and he hasn’t even taken his clothes off yet. Darcy feels as if it’s their first time all over again, and those feelings of inadequacy creep up in the back of her mind again. Thoughts of how undeserving she is of him—of how young and inexperienced she is—but Lupin doesn’t seem to care about any of those things. 

Wanting to just be closer to him, Darcy lifts Lupin’s shirt over his head and starts on his belt, her hands shaking, just like they had the first time. She kisses his shoulders, tarnishing his neck and chest with love bites. With surprising agility, Lupin slides her underwear down her legs, throwing it aside carelessly.

Almost an hour of nimble fingers and hot mouths and hungry kisses on every inch of skin, using each other’s bodies in ways they hadn’t been able to at Hogwarts—Darcy is sure that, after tonight, she’ll be able to picture his body vividly in her dreams, exactly the way it really is. Never has she felt so close to someone, never has she wanted to be  _ closer.  _ Sweating slightly and very flushed, Lupin kisses Darcy hard on the mouth and she wraps an arm around his neck, holding him in place. He tastes of her, of nothing but her, and when he lowers himself into her, Darcy breaks the kiss to sigh loudly, and Lupin’s lips leave a trail of kisses up and down her neck. 

He growls things in her ear that make her blush furiously in the darkness, things she never thought him capable of even saying, things she could never picture coming out of his mouth. But when he kisses her on the mouth again, pounding in and out of her, Darcy is a woman in love—when their bodies press against each other and Lupin smiles at her, flicking his hair out of his eyes, leaning in to capture her lips in a bruising kiss, she is happy enough to die. 

* * *

Lupin reads to her by the light of a flickering lamp on the nightstand. Darcy, curled up next to him, her head on his chest and an arm draped across his middle, feels her eyelids grow heavier with each word he says outloud. One of Lupin’s arms is wrapped around her, holding her in place at his side, his thumb caressing the soft skin on her arm.

Every so often, Darcy places a soft kiss to his chest, making him smile in the middle of the sentence he’s reading. Darcy barely hears him, has barely listened to the last half a chapter he’s been reading to her. Her mind is buzzing with things she had been wanting to talk to him about—but after seeing him again, those thoughts had completely flown from her mind. Darcy’s been so engrossed by his company and companionship that it makes her feel slightly drunk—light-headed, giggly, and completely and utterly in love. 

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” she whispers, kissing his chest again. “Going back to Hogwarts?”

Lupin glances at Darcy, marking his page and closing the book, placing it on the nightstand beside Darcy’s new camera. “You won’t know if it’s the right thing until you try it,” he answers. “I can’t help but notice you’ve spent a lot of time feeling doubtful about this.”

Darcy pauses, her cheeks turning pink, but unable to hide the small smile on her face. “You’re going to kill me.”

“What have you done?” But Lupin only has to take one good look at her face before he understands. He lets out a loud sigh, chuckling for a moment, and then stopping himself. Running his eyes, he mutters, “What did you say to Severus, Darcy?”

Darcy recounts the conversation she’d had with Snape at the end of the school year, as much as she can remember, telling Lupin the complete truth. He sighs a lot during her retelling, sitting up straighter and pulling his arm back from Darcy’s shoulders to rub furiously at his temples and mess up his already shaggy hair. Darcy sits up, as well, holding the blanket to her chest and frowning. 

Lupin takes a moment to think about his answer, looking to be choosing his words very carefully. “You don’t believe Severus, do you?” he asks softly, and Darcy almost laughs at the fact that this is the first thing he’s chosen to address. “You don’t think—Darcy, you can’t truly believe that I would do that to you.”

“I know,” Darcy replies quickly. “I know you wouldn’t. I know you’ve been honest with me, and I know what happened that night with Sirius. I know you were telling the truth.”

Lupin nods, kissing her forehead before continuing. “You shouldn’t have said those things, Darcy,” he continues. “You should have known better—you should have kept your mouth shut. You know he’ll tell Dumbledore everything you said?”

“So what?” Darcy asks, having expected this reaction from him. “He’s the reason Sirius couldn’t get his name cleared. He’s the reason the entire school knows you’re a werewolf. Doesn’t that bother you? Why didn’t you say something to him?”

“Why does it bother you so much, Darcy?” Lupin says, giving Darcy a very curious look, his eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you so angry?”

Darcy looks at him, bewildered. “Because it’s not fair,” she retorts, her voice rising several octaves. “It’s not fair that you were forced out of Hogwarts because of something you can’t help—because Snape was feeling particularly cruel that morning. It’s not fair that you can’t get the ingredients you need for your potion without having to resort to being a science experiment—it’s not fair that people who’ve never met you, who’ve never spoken to you, who don’t know how kind and gentle you are, will still think you’re a—a—monster.”

Lupin opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again. After a heavy silence, he rasps, “One look at your shoulder, and they’ll know that’s all I really am.”

“No,” Darcy breathes. “I know who you truly are—and you are no monster, Remus.”

He looks at her for a long time, his expression unreadable, but soft. Lupin reaches for her hand, taking it in his and lifting it to his mouth; he kisses her knuckles lightly and lowers their hands without letting go. “Stay,” he whispers, and Darcy raises an eyebrow. “Stay with me, please—just until you go back to Hogwarts.”

Darcy’s heart races in her chest—surely he can hear it. All she wants to do is hug him, kiss him, fuck him, scream  _ yes, yes, yes.  _ And yet, despite the joy his words bring her, Darcy shakes her head slowly, speaking so softly that it comes out as a squeak. “Remus, I—” Darcy hesitates. “I can’t. Harry needs me.”

She isn’t sure that’s entirely true, but she wants to believe it. What kind of sister would she be if she left Harry alone for a man? What would Harry think of her if she up and left him to be with Lupin, someone who had only recently come back into her life?

“I want to,” she says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I want to, so badly, but—”

Lupin cuts her off with a kiss on her swollen lips. He runs his fingers through her hair, pulling away just barely, so that their lips still brush when he whispers, “Then stay.” He continues his argument by kissing her neck, and Darcy closes her eyes, willing herself not to give in—what she wouldn’t give to have this every night, to fall asleep with him beside her, to wake up to his kisses, to his touch, to his smile. 

“I can’t,” she says again, hating herself for it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Lupin murmurs into her neck, kissing her skin over and over again. “Just tell me you love me, kitten.”

“I love you,” Darcy mutters, tilting her head back as his lips graze her throat and opening her legs as his fingers graze the inside of her thigh. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”


	4. Chapter 4

_ CLICK! _

A bright flash wakes her, but Darcy doesn’t open her eyes yet. With half her face still buried in the pillow, her hair tickling the tip of her nose, she lets out a muffled groan and smiles slightly. “Don’t take pictures of me while I’m sleeping,” she murmurs, her tone playful. 

“I couldn’t help it, love,” Lupin answers softly. “You looked so cute.”

Darcy’s eyes flutter open to find Lupin sitting up in bed beside her, the blanket draped over his legs, holding her camera in one hand and vigorously shaking the photograph with his other hand. He smiles at her when he sees that her eyes are open. Darcy admires the sight of him shirtless for a moment, flesh littered with scars that all know the feel of her lips—she will never grow tired of this sight, of waking next to him while he looks so vulnerable, brown and gray hair tousled and falling into his face, a lopsided grin on his face, bleary-eyed. Lupin puts her camera down, noticing her staring at him and smirking, giving the photograph a few more shakes and looking down at it.

“Let me see it,” she rasps, reaching out for the photograph. Lupin gives it to her without protest, and she examines it, feeling a blush rising to her face. The photograph-Darcy’s eyes are still shut, a few stray strands of hair falling across her face, a slight pout on her still swollen lips. “Where are all the pictures I’ve taken of you?”

“Hidden somewhere no one will ever find them.”

She chuckles, moving swiftly up from her place on the bed and placing a knee on either side of Lupin. He looks up at Darcy as she leans over to the reach the nightstand, her chest pressing against his as she opens the drawer and pulls out a stack of photographs. Lupin leans forward and kisses her collarbone, his fingers brushing over the scars on her shoulder. Darcy shuffles through the photographs—there are quite a few now. One shows Darcy sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, smiling drunkenly; another is of the two of them, Darcy beaming and Lupin’s face buried in her neck shyly; others of Darcy cooking breakfast and candid ones of her reading and ones of her smiling at the television. She eventually shows Lupin the one she’d taken of him at the market. “I like this one,” she says, and Lupin rests his forehead against her chest, giving the picture a sideways glance. “I’m keeping it.”

“Then I’m keeping…” Lupin quickly pulls one of the photographs from Darcy’s hands before she can stop him. “This one.” He raises his eyebrows, grinning, showing her the photograph only for a moment, but Darcy recognizes it immediately. Lupin had taken it two days ago as she lay in bed—in it, Darcy is smiling sheepishly over the top of a book, clad in nothing except her underwear, her long legs stretched out and crossed in front of her. Despite the embarrassment the photograph brings her (in the best way possible), Darcy has to admit that she looks a completely different person than when she’d arrived at Lupin’s. There’s some color in her cheeks now, and eating so much food the past week has filled her out a little bit. 

Darcy reaches for it, but Lupin pulls it out of her reach, holding it up above his head. “Give it back,” she says, reaching for it again, the tips of her fingers just brushing against it. 

“What are you going to do with it?” Lupin teases, tossing the photograph onto the nightstand. “I’ll keep it safe for you.” He leans back on the headboard, sighing contently. “Are you sure you won’t stay?”

Darcy kisses his forehead. “If you keep asking me that, I may start to think you’re falling in love with me.” She smiles down into his face. “Can you imagine? Remus Lupin—falling in love with a Potter.”

“And what if I am?” Lupin asks flatly, closing his eyes as Darcy kisses his cheeks, running her fingers through his hair. 

“Are you?”

Lupin only smiles innocently, looking up into Darcy’s face.

“You’ll come see me, won’t you?” she whispers, resuming kissing his face. Lupin closes his eyes again and continues to grin as Darcy’s lips leave tender kisses on every inch of his face. She drapes her arms around his neck. “When I’m at Hogwarts?”

“I’m sure I can arrange something,” he says, his eyelashes fluttering against Darcy’s cheek. “But—if you want to continue this, we need to tell Sirius.”

Darcy stops kissing him, sitting up straighter in his lap. For some reason, talking about Sirius while wearing only her underwear makes her slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s the conversation they’re about to have, however, that unsettles her. Of course she wants to continue this—whatever they have—but Darcy is being foolish if she thinks they could continue doing this in secret. She knows that Sirius will have to know, that both she and Lupin owe Sirius the truth, but Darcy also knows that other people will need to know the truth—Emily won’t be happy about it, and Darcy can’t imagine Mr. Weasley will be, either. 

_ But what does it matter?  _ Darcy asks herself.  _ They’re not my parents _ — _ Sirius isn’t my father, nor is Mr. Weasley, and what does it matter what Emily thinks about it? She’s never understood. Harry’s the only one that matters.  _ But Darcy isn’t sure how she’d even bring up the topic to any of them—is she supposed to just write a letter to Sirius detailing how she’d slowly fallen in love with Lupin while she was his student? Is she supposed to explain to Sirius how she’d stayed the week at his best friend’s home, just the two of them, alone? Sirius is a grown man—he would know what had been going on, would know that they’d slept together, would likely be  _ furious _ at the prospect. But how does she know that? She barely knows Sirius—in fact, the only thing that she knows for sure is that she loved him— _ loves  _ him. And he loves her, so why would he balk at the thought of them together? Here is someone that Sirius knows, very well, and wouldn’t he be relieved that Lupin has stepped in where others haven’t?

Darcy can’t pretend that she hasn’t thought about others’ reactions. Professor McGonagall has already seen them out and about, has likely already told Dumbledore—and what will Dumbledore say when Darcy returns to Hogwarts? She still has not forgotten Dumbledore’s promise that the conversation would happen at a more opportune time. But there is nothing he can do—she can no longer be expelled and Lupin can no longer be fired, and Dumbledore wouldn’t really kick her out of Hogwarts for going against his wishes— _ would he? _

“I’ll tell him,” Darcy promises, kissing him gently again on the lips. “Just give me a little bit of time.”

“Are you afraid of telling Sirius?” Lupin jokes, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. He laughs into her skin, his hands snaking around her waist. “What’s the worst he could do? Chastise you via letter? Send me a Howler?”

“It’s not funny,” Darcy whispers, lowering her arms to her sides and slipping off his lap. Throwing the remaining photographs on the table, she rummages in her trunk for her last clean outfit, shimmying into jeans that are slightly too tight and putting one of Emily’s old t-shirts on. “Sirius’s opinion means a lot to me.”

Lupin doesn’t answer, watching her get dressed. “Darcy, I don’t want you going back there.”

Darcy smiles at him, her cheeks pink. “I know,” she replies, sneaking into the bathroom and leaving the door opened just a crack as she brushes her hair. “You’ve asked me to stay a hundred times already and—”

“No, Darcy,” Lupin interrupts, and Darcy lowers her brush at the sound of his voice—low and serious and gravelly—and privately very glad she doesn’t have to look him in the face. “I don’t want you to go back. I don’t want to have to worry more than I already do about you.”

Darcy looks at herself in the mirror, her jaw clenched. The bruise that had adorned her cheek when she’d arrived is mostly gone now—all that remains are two fingertip sized bruises just underneath her eye, fading and painless. Her fingers are back to their normal, slender length instead of swollen and puffy, and the welts on her body from being hit with Vernon’s cane have mostly gone, save for one on her back that Lupin had pointed out after waking with her for the first time. But even as she looks at herself, she has to wonder— _ how long until I am back to the way I was? How long until I am a canvas once more, colored with deep blues and purples and tinged with yellow?  _

“But I could come back here, couldn’t I?” Darcy asks through the door, listening to Lupin shifting in bed, fumbling with clothes on the ground. “If it gets bad again?”

“You are always welcome here.” Lupin opens the bathroom door and she jumps. He smiles weakly. “Does it make me selfish? Wanting you all to myself?”

Darcy wraps her arms around his middle, nuzzling into his chest. “I’m Darcy Potter,” she chuckles. “You’ll never be able to have me all to yourself. I belong to the people—ever their public servant.”

“I saw an article about you a few years ago in the paper,” Lupin says, looking curious. “Naturally, I read it as soon as I saw your name—”

“They said I was naive, distant, odd, and unable to come up with an original thought,” Darcy replies bitterly, remembering the article. Darcy and Emily had gone down to Hogsmeade, where they had met with some reporters at the Three Broomsticks completely by coincidence. They had jumped at the opportunity to interview Darcy, wanting to hear what happened the night that her parents had died, but she had been so overwhelmed that Emily took it upon herself to answer shortly on Darcy’s behalf, barely answering their questions. Darcy had greatly appreciated her best friend’s snappy retorts and passive aggressive insults, but the reporters hadn’t been thrilled at the way a fourteen year old had spoken to them. “Dumbledore told them never to return while I was at Hogwarts. I remember. How could I not?”

“They’ll have a field day when they find out about us,” Lupin tells her quietly, pushing her hair back out of her face. “Are you sure you want that?”

Darcy sighs. “I’m not sure what I want,” she admits carefully, leaning back into him. “But I know that I love you.”

Lupin smiles, as if completely disbelieving this statement—scoffing weakly as if the idea of Darcy loving him is completely ridiculous. Darcy stands on her tiptoes, reaching out to kiss him softly on his lips. “One last time,” Lupin murmurs. “I have to ask one last time—stay with me.”

“You must know what my answer is going to be,” Darcy frowns. “I want to stay with you,  but I can’t.”

Lupin is quiet for a long time and Darcy pulls away from him, beginning to clean all of her things and placing them back in her trunk. As she kneels down to fold some dirty clothes that had been unceremoniously thrown to the floor the previous night, Lupin waves his wand and everything soars perfectly inside of her trunk. Darcy blushes, glad her back is facing him. Her camera is tucked on top of her clothes, the photographs beneath it, safely in place. 

“Harry will be fine, you know,” Lupin says as Darcy shuts her trunk and gets to her feet. “You’re not the only one looking after him.”

Darcy hesitates, turning around to face him. “You sound like Emily.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

“Do mine ears deceive me?” Darcy teases, trying to shake the conversation before it actually starts. “Or have you actually said that outloud? She’ll be pleased when I tell her.”

But Lupin doesn’t seem to think her comment is funny at all. On the contrary, he stands stock still, his arms folded over her chest. “Darcy, maybe—maybe it’s time to let him go.”

Darcy looks down at her feet. “I’d rather not talk about this.”

He obliges, and doesn’t say anything more about it for the rest of the day. He does load her up with food for herself and Harry—leftovers from what Darcy had bought at the market, snacks and fresh fruit and vegetables she’ll be able to store in her bedroom without needing a refrigerator. He tries for a few minutes to convince her stay again, peppering her face with sweet kisses and whispering in her ear sweet words, but finally gives up when Darcy tells him for the thousandth time she can’t, but Darcy knows he doesn’t understand how badly she wants to. While Lupin voices his concerns about Darcy and Harry being starved, Darcy ignores him and takes the food while thanking him profusely. Now, with not just her trunk, but with several shopping bags and a small bag stuffed with food, Darcy steps out into the sunshine and onto the front step. Lupin walks with her, sighing heavily at the sight of her prepared to leave him. 

“I had a good time this week,” he tells her, tucking her hair behind her ears. Darcy smiles, her eyes falling to his neck, where the top of a lovebite is still visible. The urge to stay with him grows strong inside of her, but she fights it back, thinking of Harry—alone, hungry, and bored and Privet Drive. “Come see me again whenever you like.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“I know.” Lupin frowns. “As will I.”

“Are you going to kiss me before I leave?”

Lupin laughs at this, leaning in and kissing her for a long time. When he pulls away, he suddenly looks very serious again. “Write to me straightaway if things get bad, or if you need more food, or anything—you and Harry both. Give him my best.”

Darcy looks at him for a long time, her heart racing for no other reason other than her love for him—a love intensified knowing that he cares deeply for Harry, as well—that he cares for her brother’s wellbeing. For a brief moment, Darcy is reminded of she and Harry’s conversation the previous year, about being a proper family. 

“One more thing before you leave, love,” Lupin says with a faint smile, putting his hands on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. “Tell Gemma I’m interested in her proposal.”

Darcy smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” Darcy answers. “I’ll write to her as soon as I get back. I’ll let you know what she says.”

“Be safe, my love.” Lupin nods, kissing her once more and taking a few steps back. He watches as Darcy prepares to Disapparate, and as she turns on the spot and the scene around her begins to turn into a swirl of color, she thinks she sees Lupin laughing sweetly, holding in his hands a photograph of a girl with long legs and auburn hair. 

* * *

After being gone for a week, Darcy thinks that she’ll feel  _ something _ when she walks up the garden path to Privet Drive, but all she feels is a sense of foreboding and regret towards her decision not to stay with Lupin. But then she remembers that Harry is inside, probably locked in his bedroom, and Max is in there, hopefully waiting for her to return to snuggle against her face and give her a few affectionate nips. If she’s lucky, she may have a few letters waiting for her, as well—Gemma had been the only one to know where Darcy was really going, so she doesn’t expect a letter from her, but Darcy’s heart jumps in her throat at the thought that a letter from Sirius may be sitting on her desk right now.

Darcy opens the door and struggles with all of her belongings. She makes quite a bit of noise, but thankfully, no one seems to notice or care. Harry, however, runs to the top of the stairs and before Darcy greets him, she tosses the bags of food up to him, mouthing, “Hide it!”

Harry does as he’s told, disappearing into his bedroom with armfuls of food. Darcy forces her trunk over the threshold and closes the front door, thankful to get out of the damp summer heat. “Aunt Petunia, I’m home!” she calls, poking her head into the living room. The television is on, but no one is watching it. Darcy goes back to the foyer, beginning to drag her trunk slowly up the stairs, but Petunia’s sharp voice stops her halfway up. 

Petunia is wearing her gardening gloves, her forehead slightly damp with sweat, her forearms very sunburnt. “Come help with the garden after you unpack,” she says, sniffling. “And quickly!”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

When Darcy enters her bedroom, she sees one of the best sights she ever remembers seeing. Harry’s sitting on her bed, and when the door opens, his eyes flick to Darcy and a broad smile crosses his face. Max hoots from inside his cage, trying desperately to get to Darcy. Wrapping Harry in a one-armed hug, Darcy takes her wand out of her back pocket and waves it at Max’s cage; the lock springs open and Max flies directly at her face, causing Darcy to stumble backwards as he rubs his feathers all over her face, clicking his beak and nipping Darcy’s earlobes and the tip of her nose. She wrestles with him for a moment before Max finally flutters onto the dresser, at first burying his face in his wing to fall asleep, but then turning his large, dark eyes upon Darcy’s face, his head moving with every step that she takes. 

“How was it?” Harry asks, reminding Darcy forcibly of Gemma waiting for someone to reveal an incredibly juicy piece of gossip. “What did you do?”

Darcy shrugs, her cheeks turning red. “It was fun,” she shrugs, trying to sound casual. “We went to the market and Diagon Alley—which reminds me—” She kneels at her trunk and looks inside for a moment before retrieving what she’s looking for. Harry holds out his hand as Darcy places a heavy coin purse into it. “I thought I’d take some out for you while I was there.”

“Thanks,” Harry grins, dropping his money bag on Darcy’s bed. “Are you going to go back this summer?”

“Dunno,” Darcy replies, eyeing the two unopened letters on her desk. Her fingers twitch, eager to open them. “Maybe. I’d like to, but…”

“But…?” Harry urges, leaning forward. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Darcy moves towards her desk.

“Mr. Weasley wrote you,” Harry says, eyeing the letters Darcy picks up. He looks down at her open trunk and pulls out the camera on top, examining it closely and noticing the photographs that she’s brought with her. “His letter came with Ron’s.”

“Mr. Weasley wrote me?” Darcy asks excitedly, flipping between the two letters. She finds the envelope with his minuscule handwriting and tears it open as Harry looks through the pictures she’s brought home. At that moment, she’s very thankful Lupin had decided to keep the photograph of herself in her underwear. 

_ Darcy, _

_ I know that you’ve already made your decision, but I was wondering whether you’d like to accompany me to work in exactly two weeks. I’ve already gotten the okay, and I think you’ll be interested to see what’s going on here lately—but I shouldn’t say too much here. _

_ Send your response as quickly as possible. Should you accept my offer, I will arrive at your home in two weeks time to escort you to the Ministry.  _

_ With love, _

_ Mr. Weasley _

“He wants to bring me to the Ministry. When did this arrive?” Darcy asks, as Harry looks closely at another photograph. 

“Few days ago,” Harry says, looking up at Darcy over the picture. “These are good pictures of you, Darcy.”

Darcy blushes furiously, grabbing some parchment and a pen from her desk drawer. She puts the point to the parchment before realizing she has no idea how to respond—it seems strange that Mr. Weasley would invite her to spend time with him at work instead of one of his own children. But she’s grateful for an excuse to get out of Privet Drive even just for a day, and Darcy has always nursed a  soft spot for Mr. Weasley (and she feels that he nurses a soft spot for her, as well), so she writes:  _ Yes. I’ll see you soon.  _ “Is Hedwig away?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Can I use her to send this to Mr. Weasley?”

“Sure. I was waiting to send a letter back to Ron anyway.”

Darcy hands Harry her reply to Mr. Weasley and looks back down at the other letter. She tears into it, knowing it’s from Sirius, and when she pulls out the parchment, she’s slightly disappointed how short it is. 

_ Darcy, _

_ I remember that day. You were always climbing up in my lap—I’m glad you tore Wormtail out of the picture. I’m sure it’s much nicer without him showing his ugly, traitorous face.  _

_ Are you excited about returning to Hogwarts? I can only hope, with Dumbledore being sympathetic towards me, I may be able to see you again sometime. I wish we had gotten more time together, but life can be cruel. I am glad that you have surrounded yourself with people who love and care about you.  _

_ As always, if you or Harry need anything, please let Remus know. He’ll be able to help you much faster than I will be able to. Keep me posted on everything. We have years to catch up on.  _

_ All of my love, _

_ Padfoot _

Darcy decides she’ll have to write to him later, unsure if she’s going to tell him where she’s been this past week. She remembers the internal struggle she had felt trying to decide whether or not to tell Lupin about Dumbledore’s warning so many months ago. But she can hear Petunia calling up the stairs for her and Darcy ties her hair into a ponytail and changed quickly into clothes she doesn’t mind dirtying, leaving Harry to join her aunt in the sweltering summer sun—not before taking off the necklace she’d gotten from the market, however. 

Petunia is outside by herself, Vernon in the sitting room watching television and flicking through the newspaper. Dudley is nowhere to be seen, and Darcy’s grateful. Ignoring Vernon, Darcy settles herself at Petunia’s side at the garden as she pulls some weeds. Handing Darcy some gloves, Petunia moves closer, surprising Darcy.

Petunia quickly peers inside to make sure no one is listening, and then glances over each shoulder, looking for a sign of eavesdropping neighbors. “I have a job lined up for you,” Petunia mutters, and Darcy gives her aunt a sideways look before reaching for some weeds.

“But I already have a job,” she whispers, uncertain why Dumbledore hadn’t added that in his letter to Petunia. Darcy keeps her eyes on the weeds. “It just hasn’t started yet.”

Petunia ignores her. “A secretary—Mrs. Willow has offered you a place at her husband’s business.”

Darcy scowls, and knows that Petunia sees it. Mrs. Willow had always been one to demand Darcy play the part of a lady—reading poems and cooking dinner and showing off table manners—and had always spoken of her son, around Darcy’s age, who was a perfect gentleman, and always hinted at a marriage in the future. Petunia had been half-delighted, half-cross about the idea, given that no one knows what Darcy really is. “I don’t want to work as a secretary,” she whispers back. “I’m going to be an assistant at school this fall.”

Petunia gives her a withering glare. “Her son, Henry, is willing to marry you, and he’s a good boy.”

He’s not a good boy, however, and Darcy knows it. They’d met on several occasions, and one of them involved Henry trying to touch between her legs while they were thirteen and out of sight of his mother and Petunia, but Darcy doesn’t think this the sort of thing Petunia should ever know. “Aunt Petunia, I’m returning to school this fall. Professor Snape is going to—”

Petunia drops the shovel she’s holding, looking horrified. Very, very slowly, Petunia turns to look at Darcy. “What did you say?”

“Er—” Darcy’s sure Petunia heard her perfectly well. “I’m going to be an assistant for one of our teachers.”

“Who did you say?”

Darcy pauses. “Professor Snape.” And from Petunia’s look of horror and her scrunched nose and purses lips, Darcy has to ask, “Do you  _ know _ him?”

“Know him?” Petunia hisses angrily. She seems to be fighting some internal conflict as to whether or not to tell Darcy something very important. “Of course I knew him. Nasty boy, always hanging around your mother. In love with her, I expect. Is he in love with you, as well?”

Her tone is accusing, and Darcy flushes. “No, Aunt Petunia.”

Darcy is quiet, hoping that Petunia will fill the silence. Her heartbeat begins to quicken. 

“Until  _ you _ came along, and then instead of one nasty boy, we had four of them at our house all the time during the summer.”

Darcy thinks that now is a good time to tell Petunia something, but thinks carefully about how to word it. As casually as possible, Darcy’s says, “Professor Lupin was a teacher at school last year.”

This gets Petunia’s attention. “I remember him,” she murmurs bitterly. “Good friends with your mother. I’m sure he took to you quickly, didn’t he?” But her tone suggests that it’s not a good thing he did.

Darcy suddenly feels sick at these words. She stops fumbling with the weed she had been about to pull from the earth.  _ He admitted it himself he took to me quickly because I am James and Lily’s daughter,  _ she thinks,  _ but he always made sure to let me know he saw me as Darcy.  _ Still, Darcy can’t deny the effect Petunia’s statement has on her. But Petunia has no idea of what they have together—has no idea the love she and Lupin share.  _ Petunia doesn’t think anyone could love  _ me _ having known my mother—she doesn’t think Darcy Potter could be loved.  _ She wants to tell Petunia then where she’d been instead of Emily’s—wants to tell Petunia that she had fallen asleep curled up in Lupin’s arms, had kissed him all over, had loved him in every way she could possibly think of. 

But she doesn’t. She knows there will be consequences—knows that Vernon will likely find out, and the results won’t be pretty. Darcy doesn’t think she’s ever looked pretty with her face covered in bruises. The memory of the last time he’d hit her in earnest still makes bile rise in her throat, and it’s the only thing that stops her from admitting the truth to Petunia. 

“Yes,” Darcy rasps. “He did.”

“Men in that freak world of yours will always take an interest in you,” Petunia frowns, eyebrows furrowed. “Especially men who knew your freak mother.” When Darcy doesn’t immediately answer, Petunia lets the silence hang over them for a minute. Then, in a low voice, she says, “Go.”

Darcy gets to her feet quickly, walking into the house and running up the stairs, feeling that she would have much rather Vernon hit her—at least then, after a few moments, the pain of it would subside.

* * *

Petunia’s words haunt her for days, especially at night as she looks through the photographs she and Lupin had taken of each other. They look so happy in them, as if they’d been together for years—comfortable and relaxed with wide smiles and shy glances. It makes her slightly sad to know the photographs represent their relationship—if that’s what it is in the first place—in a much different light. Without him by her side, without his smile and touch distracting her and stopping her from overthinking, Darcy is suddenly very wary about his feelings towards her.

She had thought, at the end of the school year, that their relationship would continue—that they would love each other completely and unrestrainedly, without reservation. But Darcy had foolishly forgotten what the two of them are—Darcy Potter, sister of the Boy Who Lived and daughter of James and Lily Potter; no matter how much she wishes or dreams, that’s all she’ll ever be. And then she thinks of him—Remus Lupin, werewolf, outcast, friend of her parents and godfather and twice her age. 

She looks at the picture of Lupin smiling at the market, looking a young man again. How many times has Darcy dreamt of another life? One that isn’t plagued by suffering and tragedy? One that doesn’t involve bearing so much responsibility at only eighteen. It startles Darcy sometimes to remember how young she is— _eighteen_. Surely she’s older—surely she’s lived longer than that—after all she’s been through, it can’t be possible that she’s still so young. _Too_ _young,_ she thinks. _Too young to have been through so much, to have lost so much—too young for him—I do look an awful like my mother when she was this age, when she was in school…_

_ Don’t be stupid,  _ Darcy tells herself.  _ He loves you, not your mother. You’ve had this conversation before. _

And though Darcy knows the truth, and what Aunt Petunia has to say shouldn’t matter, she can’t help but to feel that if she’s left alone, dwelling on these thoughts, they may eat her alive. She glances up at the calendar, where she’s been crossing off the days until Mr. Weasley will be coming to get her to take her to work. 

Three days.

Darcy throws the photograph down on the bed and opens her desk drawer, pulling out a pen and some parchment. 

_ Emily, _

Darcy pauses, wondering what will appeal to Emily most. Surely the pleading, begging Darcy—that’s always worked in the past when she needed to leave Privet Drive quickly. But Darcy isn’t feeling much in a pleading and begging mood. She decides to take a different approach and lowers her pen to the parchment once more.

_ Get me the fuck out of here. _


	5. Chapter 5

_ Today, I am a Potter. Today, I am my mother’s daughter.  _

Darcy takes a long look at herself in the mirror, while the rest of the house still sleeps. She finds it hard to believe that she can look at a picture of her mother and think her the most beautiful woman in the world, and all the while not feel beautiful herself, despite the striking resemblance to Lily. But up close, Darcy doesn’t see it as much—they share the same red hair, the same vivid green eyes, the same milky skin. But Darcy’s nose is wrong, her lips are wrong, her expression is wrong, her body is wrong. These minor differences between she and her mother are painfully obvious today, and Darcy wishes her mother was there to comfort her, to tell her that she’s beautiful anyway—she wishes Sirius was there to hold her and tell her she’s the prettiest girl in the world. She wishes Lupin was there to kiss her—to prove that, even if she doesn’t think she’s beautiful, someone else does.

Darcy clips the purple necklace around her neck, admiring it. Today, it feels like a crown upon her head. A small comfort to her, remembering that Lupin had been the one to buy it. 

She knows what will come when she arrives at the Ministry in a little while—knows that no matter how hard Mr. Weasley will try to hide her and keep away unwanted attention, it will come. It is inescapable as a Potter and overwhelming, and Darcy suddenly is thankful she hasn’t gone into the Ministry. How could she have forgotten who she is? How could she have lost sight of that? Going into the Ministry would have meant never having her own identity, never being able to just be Darcy. She’s never wanted to be her parents’ legacy, but that’s what she would have been, had she chosen to follow her dreams of working at the Ministry. As soon as she sets foot inside the building, she knows people will flock to her, just as they always have. People have always shaken her hand, wrapped her in uncomfortable hugs—when Cornelius Fudge had become Minister, frequenting Hogwarts to visit Dumbledore, reporters had been just as excited at glimpsing Darcy as Fudge. Did she truly believe that, by going into the Ministry for a career, that would end?

_ Did I even want that? Or was it just Emily? I let her decide for me, even as children, what I wanted.  _ But that’s all Darcy can remember—other people making choices for her, starting with strangers she’d never met deciding that she’d be better off with her aunt and uncle instead of Sirius.  _ What if I had been given the choice? Would I have chosen Sirius over Harry? Why wouldn’t I have? Why would I have chosen to live with strangers instead of someone who wanted me? _

Darcy feels sick to her stomach. Freedom is hard, she’s learned. Choices are hard. Things are so much easier when other people make the decisions for her—Petunia had always decided what clothes Darcy had to wear, had structured her days to keep her busy, had chosen what Darcy would cook for meals; Emily had chosen where to go during summers, what they wanted to eat, what classes to continue taking at school, what Darcy wanted to be when they graduated. Emily had chosen Darcy’s goals and ambitions for her and picked out boys she thought Darcy would like, and sometimes Darcy feels that Emily has chosen certain personality traits for her, or maybe that’s just a symptom of being so close to someone for so long. She isn’t sure.

Darcy has never been sure of many things. But standing in front of the mirror, examining every little detail—she’s sure of one thing in particular—she’s glad she has decided to return to Hogwarts. She is thankful that she’ll be with Harry, with Snape—someone who won’t overwhelm her with infatuation and curiosity. 

The anxiety that comes with a big day full of surprises gnaws at her as she waits upon the front step for Mr. Weasley. Darcy tries to ease her anxiety with thoughts of spending the day away from Privet Drive, with Mr. Weasley, possibly being able to see Emily. He arrives early, just as the sun begins to rise in earnest, and is surprised to see her already ready and outside waiting for him.

“Darcy—you look beautiful,” he whispers with a grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so grown up before. You’ve brushed your hair, anyway.”

Darcy laughs and her heart races, and she knows she will never be able to express to Mr. Weasley how wonderful it is to hear those words from his mouth. 

He greets her with a hug and kiss to her forehead and they set off down the street, looking for a secluded place to Disapparate, far from prying eyes and early rising neighbors.

“I’m glad you’re coming today—big day at the Ministry—big day—what with preparations for the World Cup and the—well, you’ll find out soon enough, I think, and I’ll tell you now, Darcy, you are in for a real treat once you get back to Hogwarts, you and Harry both.” Mr. Weasley sighs happily, and they settle into an awkward silence once again. “I hope the Muggles have been good to you and Harry this summer.”

Darcy smiles sheepishly. “As good as they can be, I suppose,” she shrugs, remembering one of the sharp smacks to her face she’d received. “We’re still alive, anyway.”

“Here should be fine,” Mr. Weasley suggests, and he puts a hand on her elbow, leading her down a shady alleyway. The cool air makes goosebumps rise on her arms, and in the process of adjusting the neckline on her dress, accidentally reveals just an inch of scar on her shoulder. Mr. Weasley doesn’t seem to notice as Darcy covers it once more, wishing she was in the safety of her own bed, feeling that today is going to go all wrong for reasons unknown to even herself. “Hold onto me, Darcy.”

She obeys as the world around her begins to spin, and within seconds, Darcy’s feet hit solid ground. Looking down at her feet first, Darcy notices the smooth, black wooden flooring upon which she stands—polished to look like a mirror, like completely still water. She can see her blurred and pale reflection in it, and looks up around her in amazement. Wizards and witches are just arriving at work, and the large atrium is not yet full with bustling workers ready to start the day. All around her, they Apparate quite routinely and regularly, or else exit from large fireplaces where green fire roars to life as someone appears in the hearth casually. The employees wear robes of all different colors—navy blue, green, maroon—some with hats and some without. Mr. Weasley smiles at the look on her face and ushers her along, one hand firm upon her smooth shoulder. 

Further along, Darcy stops again at a large, golden statue. She looks up into the handsome wizard’s face, reminded briefly of Sirius and his sharp-cut features, conventionally attractive almost to a fault; looking up dreamily at the wizard is an equally beautiful witch, long, stone hair blowing in a non-existent breeze. Darcy’s eyes fall upon the centaur next—she recalls the only time she had ever seen one, when she, Ron, and Harry had ventured into the Forbidden Forest for a detention. Firenze, he was called, and Darcy had told her friends about the handsome centaur that allowed her to ride upon his back to safety (Emily hadn’t believed her until Harry said something in passing about it the following day). She remembers how Firenze had sensed her fear and worry after they’d encountered Voldemort, had spoken soothing words to her that she hadn’t really understood, like he was speaking in riddles, but his tone had calmed her regardless. Yet Firenze had never looked at her with such a sense of longing and admiration, as the statue-centaur looks at the statue-wizard and witch. In addition to this odd sight, a house-elf stands at the feet of the witch, water spraying from his ears, a dreamy look on his face, as well. But the strangest thing of all is the goblin beside the house-elf, crudely sculpted to look angry and ugly. Darcy catches sight of a sign around the base about donations made to St Mungo’s, and thinking happily of Gemma, Darcy throws two Galleons into the water. 

“I want to introduce you to someone very important, who’s been working very hard on the World Cup,” Mr. Weasley continues after Darcy throws her coins into the fountain. He checks his watch as they approach the security desk. “By which time, I should have a surprise for you.” 

Darcy only smiles at him as the security wizard takes her wand and registers it quickly and silently, giving it back. She thanks him and puts her wand back into her pocket (a pocket that she’d sewn on the dress simply to have a place to put her wand). Mr. Weasley continues to walk her through the atrium, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor, and they walk through a large, golden gate to a smaller room full of lifts, bringing wizards and witches to their intended destination. The two of them squeeze into a half-full lift, Mr. Weasley standing just over her shoulder.

“Few stops to make before we go to my office, so just hang tight, Darcy.”

At the sound of his words, several people in the lift turn to look furtively at Darcy, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Mr. Weasley seems to have realized his mistake, and Darcy’s grateful that the lift empties within the first few floors. It continues to carry them up several floors, until a disembodied, female voice says, “Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office.”

When Darcy exits the lift and enters the department’s corridor, she has to smile. It’s an unorganized and untidy, but large office of sorts—cubicles are all around, several of them, each with posters of Quidditch teams and famous players. Papers litter desks and many of the workers are hurrying around and talking to each other excitedly, quills and parchment following after them. Mr. Weasley takes her elbow, pushing her into the thick of it, craning his neck for a look around. 

“Morning, Arthur.”

“Good to see you, Arthur.”

“Working hard?”

“Arthur Weasley! And who is this delightful young woman you’ve brought with you? One of yours?”

The man shakes Mr. Weasley’s hand vigorously, his eyes fixed upon Darcy. He takes in her red hair, her green eyes, and then releases Mr. Weasley’s hand, taking a step back to take in Darcy’s full appearance. Darcy looks him up down, and thinks that—maybe—many years ago, the man would have been good looking. Broad shouldered and thick armed, his blue eyes rove Darcy’s face for what seems like a long time. His smile fades only for a moment, and then it’s back, his face looking flushed and his eyes finding Mr. Weasley’s again.

“Oho!” the man exclaims, holding out an eager hand towards Darcy. “I  _ knew _ you looked familiar—just  _ knew  _ that I’d seen you somewhere before—you’re not one of Arthur’s! You’re Darcy—Darcy Potter, aren’t you?”

Feeling the best thing to do in this case, with everyone’s eyes now upon them, is turn up her charm, Darcy nods and puts on her best smile, shaking his hand. “I am,” she admits shyly. “I’m Darcy Potter, yes.” 

This seems to delight the man, nearly bouncing on his heels. “Darcy Potter,” he repeats, chuckling to himself. “Ludo Bagman, Head of Magical Games and Sports, lead organizer—or one of them, I suppose—of the Quidditch World Cup, which I do hope you’ll be attending, my dear—and one of the organizers of the—”

“I haven’t told her yet, Ludo,” Mr. Weasley interrupts with a small smile. He turns to Darcy. “Ludo was the one who got us such wonderful tickets for the World Cup.”

Ludo waves an impatient hand, having eyes for no one but Darcy. “I’ve heard rumors, of course, that you’ll be returning to Hogwarts this coming fall. Have I been hearing correct?”

“Oh,” Darcy blushes, still smiling at him and holding her hands behind her back. “I hadn’t realized things moved so quickly in the Ministry. Yes, I am returning to Hogwarts.”

“You are in for a real treat, Darcy, once you return,” Ludo says with raised eyebrows.

“So I’ve heard,” Darcy replies, looking at Mr. Weasley. 

“Go on, Arthur—I won’t ruin the surprise if you’d rather tell her yourself!”

Mr. Weasley clears his throat, and Darcy looks at him expectantly. Holding his hands out in front of him and exhaling loudly, Mr. Weasley shrugs his shoulders. “This year, Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament,” he says, but noticing Darcy’s blank expression, he elaborates. “The Triwizard Tournament is—well, a contest of sorts, involving Hogwarts, and two other Wizarding schools. A champion will be selected from each school and they will then compete in the tournament.”

“Three different tasks have been selected for the champion to compete in,” Ludo continues. “Dangerous tasks, full of grueling challenges, forced to make the champions restless—but! The winner will win, not only eternal glory for the rest of their life, but a fat sack of Galleons, as well. Now, people have died in the past, of course, but Barty and me have been—”

“People have died?” Darcy asks, rounding on Mr. Weasley. “What do you mean people have died?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mr. Weasley mutters. “And no one under the age of seventeen will be permitted to enter. One of the new rules, given the circumstances of the tournament many, many years ago.”

“Now, Darcy, all of this is  _ top secret,  _ understand, my dear?” Ludo winks, taking Darcy’s hands in his own. She doesn’t quite pull her hands away, but with his grip, Darcy doesn’t think he’s keen on letting go. “We can’t have these details leaking out before the tournament is officially announced! Not even to your brother, Darcy! Do you have time for a tour? Arthur, let me take this lovely young woman off your hands for a little while, just while I show her the inner workings of my department!” He puts a hand on the small of her back, and Darcy looks pleadingly at Mr. Weasley, who takes Darcy’s wrist and pulls her away from Ludo.

“Sorry, Ludo, but we do have a busy day ahead of us,” Mr. Weasley says, pulling Darcy behind him and smiling sweetly at Ludo. “I’ve only got her here for the day, and there’s so much to see and many other people to meet, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, that’s all right,” Ludo sighs, not seeming very disappointed. “I’m sure we’ll see much, much more of each other this year, my dear! Come, let me say goodbye to you for the time being! It was such a pleasure to finally meet you! Working at the Ministry, you hear all sorts of things about the Potters, but of course, you are far more beautiful than they’ve described you.”

Darcy gives an embarrassed laugh and steps to Mr. Weasley’s side. Ludo takes her hand in his again and kisses her knuckles, making her flush a deep red. “Goodbye, Mr. Bagman,” she says hastily, pulling her hand away from his lips. “Good luck with everything.”

Mr. Weasley leads her rather quickly to the lifts again, looking quite flustered. “I’m so sorry about that, Darcy,” he tells her with a small smile. “Ludo is, generally, quite friendly and—he’s just over excited about everything. You know, he hasn’t been doing much in the past years, so having two things to work on at once has made him—”

“It’s all right, Mr. Weasley,” Darcy answers, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze. “Truly.”

“He was a Quidditch player himself back in the day. It’s a good place for him to be, and I wanted to have him there when I told you about the Triwizard Tournament. He was right, however—it is strictly top secret and you shouldn’t even know about it, really, but… since when have I ever kept anything top secret from you?” As people begin to enter the lift, shuffling Darcy and Mr. Weasley around, he checks his watch again. “Nearly time. I think you’ll enjoy this next surprise much better.”

After a few more people get on and off the lift, the female voice says again, “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Offices, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

Mr. Weasley and Darcy push their way to the golden grilles gently, and he leads her down the bare stretch of corridor until they emerge into a large, open room full of cubicles, just as the last department had been. However, instead of Quidditch posters decorating the walls, pictures full of Dark wizards, Sirius Black,  _ Daily Prophet _ clippings, and pictures of family and friends. “Welcome to the Auror Headquarters, Darcy,” Mr. Weasley grins, and Darcy smiles. She looks around the room, taking in the sights of Aurors chatting with friends, lazing at their desks with their feet up, laughing and sending paper airplanes through the air that zoom past Darcy’s head. “Come along, this way. I have something I want to show you.”

Darcy obliges, following Mr. Weasley through the rows of cubicles—none of them seem to notice Darcy, a smile on her face as she looks around. She imagines herself sitting at one of these cubicles, a few years older than she is now, with photographs of her and her friends and family at her desk, the photographs that she has stuck on the wall in her bedroom. Mr. Weasley tugs at her arm again and Darcy turns, to see the backs of two young women huddled together, clearly gossiping and giggling. But the scene makes Darcy’s heart stop momentarily, her smile growing wider. She recognizes one of these girls—recognizes the blonde hair and high-pitched laugh.

“Emily!”

Both women turn around, their smiles fading quickly, but at the sight of Darcy, Emily grins again. “Darcy!” The two girls run towards each other and hug tightly. “What are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming to the Ministry!”

Still clutching each other’s hands, Darcy shakes her head in disbelief. “Well, you have Max still, I hope, and Hedwig’s out delivering a letter—it was all very short notice, but Mr. Weasley’s brought me here for the day! I didn’t realize you’d be here, I thought—I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Darcy, I’m so sorry I didn’t reply to your letter,” Emily sighs happily, looking her friend over and smoothing Darcy’s hair down. “I’ve been trying to get some time off of work, but it’s just been so busy lately—”

“I understand,” Darcy says quickly, smiling at Emily to indicate she’s being honest. “I’m so happy for you—is this what you’ve been doing? Training to become an Auror? You haven’t told me any of that!”

“I wanted to,” Emily explains. “But I wanted to tell you in person—I couldn’t just write this on a piece of parchment, I mean—this is my dream and it just seems so silly to see it in writing! I was going to tell you when I saw you again, I promise!”

“Emily, this is  _ wonderful! _ I’m so happy for you!”

“Thank you so much!” Emily replies, and she lowers her hands from Darcy to look over her shoulder at Mr. Weasley. “Mr. Weasley, could I give Darcy a tour? I swear I’ll get her back to you on time!”

Darcy turns to see Mr. Weasley with a smile, nodding at them. “Go on,” he chuckles. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t be too long.” When Mr. Weasley waves and turns to leave, Darcy faces Emily again.

“I am so glad to see you,” Emily says again, looping her arm around Darcy’s. “Anyway—sorry—this is Tonks. She’s been helping me prepare for my training—she’ll be a fully fledged Auror next year, and—get this!—she was friends with Carla’s sister! Tonks, this is Darcy Potter.”

Darcy now looks at the other young woman standing slightly behind Emily, and she smiles kindly at her, holding out a hand to shake Tonks’s. At once, Darcy recognizes her—a few years older than both she and Emily, Tonks is the same age as Carla’s sister, and they’d both been in Hufflepuff. It’s hard not to remember someone with bright pink hair, and Darcy immediately takes to her, knowing that Aunt Petunia wouldn’t be very happy with her choice of hair color. “It’s wonderful to meet you,” Darcy says.

“Likewise,” Tonks smiles. “Emily thinks very highly of you—talks about you  _ all _ the time. Any friend of Emily’s is a friend of mine.”

“Forgive my asking, I’m only curious,” Darcy continues, releasing Tonks’s hand and catching the slight pink tint on Emily’s cheeks. “You’re a Metamorphmagus, aren’t you? I remember you at school.”

“Yes,” Tonks answers proudly, laughing. “I am. Dead useful as an Auror, too.”

Emily clutches tighter onto Darcy’s arm. “Excuse us, Tonks, but I should give her the tour quickly before anyone notices that I’m gone—not that many people do notice me at all here,” she teases and Tonks snickers. Emily leads her away, walking slowly, and keeps pace with Darcy’s long strides. She shows Darcy the cubicle she and Tonks share and Darcy can’t help but think it’s very like Emily’s bedroom—there are a few pictures of her with her mother and father, along with a picture that had been taken only weeks ago in front of Hogwarts, with Emily, Darcy, Carla, and Gemma smiling, their arms thrown around each other. 

There are a few other offices on the floor that Emily and Darcy pop their heads into, and they talk aimlessly of how their summers have been going among other things.

“So, tell me about training,” Darcy says. “Your N.E.W.T.’s came back all right, then?”

“I did quite well, though I got an E in Potions—it made them rather wary, seeing as Potions is quite necessary to be an Auror—poisons and antidotes and what have you, but I proved that I know my stuff and they were happy to take me!” Emily smiles at a Ministry worker that walks past them. To Darcy’s surprise, he smiles back. “What have you been doing this summer? Your letter was so… worrying, and I didn’t know what to think.”

“Oh, that—it’s so stupid,” Darcy explains with a slight chuckle. “I was just overthinking—something Petunia told me, but it’s nothing! It’s nothing—things have been fine. Harry’s fine. I’m fine.”

“No one who’s really fine needs to say so about a hundred times,” Emily jokes as they weave through a few Aurors poring over a map of Britain. “Though I don’t see any bruises on you, which is always a good thing.”

“Yeah,” Darcy says. “I mean, I did—it was a while and I had some when I—well—” Darcy clears her throat, suddenly very hot. “I mean—I was—I went to—they got better after—I was at—R—Remus’s.”

Emily stops, narrowing her eyes at Darcy. Darcy can tell she’s battling an internal conflict, whether or not it’s worth it right now to say something rude about their relationship. Emily inhales deeply. “How was it?”

Darcy looks at Emily sheepishly. “It was good. He took very good care of me.”

“Hm.” Emily reaches for a change of subject and her face quickly lights up again. “Mum’s here—we could go see her if you’d like? She’s working on this big piece about the Quidditch World Cup—you know how she loves Quidditch—and she’s been taking interviews from some people involved. Come on, we’ll go find her—she’ll be so excited to see you again!”

Emily pulls Darcy towards the lifts again. “Maybe we should stay up here,” Darcy suggests, glancing around for a sign of Mr. Weasley.

“C’mon, Darcy,” Emily groans, rolling her eyes. “You’re always up for a little adventure, I thought! We’ll be back in a little bit.” 

Darcy knows that Emily doesn’t realize her wanting to stay close to Mr. Weasley is not so much a desire to stay out of trouble, but a desire to stay away from Ministry workers who may take a little too much interest in her. After her encounter with Ludo Bagman, things are only bound to get worse, especially with the Ministry now jam-packed with witches and wizards. Emily and Darcy squeeze into the full lift, riding it back down the same floor Darcy and Mr. Weasley had just been. The two of them walk in silence down the familiar corridor, and when they reach the office, Emily hums, looking around.

“She must be here somewhere…”

But Darcy notices that the office is much busier and much fuller than it had been when she’d been down here, and not all of the people seem to be Ministry workers, lacking robes, and instead dressed in outrageously colored pantsuits and dresses. Many of them have quills floating around their heads and are deep in conversation with many workers, and it’s then that Darcy spots Ludo Bagman on the opposite side of the office, talking to a woman with tightly curled blonde hair—but the look on Ludo’s face is completely different than the one he’d looked at Darcy with. In fact, he seems annoyed and irritated by the woman, and when he looks over to scan the room again, his eyes settle on Darcy.

“Emily,” Darcy whispers. “Who is that woman with Ludo Bagman?”

“You know Ludo Bagman?” Emily asks absently, turning to follow Darcy’s line of vision. “Oh no—that’s Rita Skeeter. My mother goes on and on about her—she’s a reporter for the  _ Daily Prophet, _ but not a particularly kind one like my mother is. Maybe we should get you out of here.”

But Ludo is still staring at her, and he leaves Rita Skeeter mid-sentence, approaching Darcy and Emily quickly. Rita follows him with her eyes, and Ludo is still grumbling when he claps and hand on Darcy’s shoulder and attempts to lead her away from the crowd. Emily follows, clutching Darcy’s wrist. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?” Ludo asks Darcy with a half-hearted smile. “Something you find attractive about the department? It’s all about who you know, Darcy, and I could get you—”

“Is this  _ the _ Darcy Potter?”

The three of them spin around, and Ludo’s face darkens again at the sight of Rita Skeeter. Her hair barely bounces with each step that she takes, and the jeweled glasses perched on the tip of her nose glint in the light. When she smiles innocently at Darcy, Darcy notices a small red smear of lipstick on her front tooth. Neither Darcy, Emily, or Ludo answer, but they all scrunch their nose at Rita. 

“My, my, my,” Rita sighs, shaking her head with a smile. “Aren’t you  _ something _ ! I do remember seeing a picture of you years ago, but you’re quite the young woman now, aren’t you?”

“Er—I should get back,” Darcy answers hastily, speaking more to Ludo than to Rita, hoping he’ll give her some good excuse to run off. “Mr. Weasley is probably waiting for me—”

“No, no! Please!” Rita grabs Darcy’s wrist, her long, green fingernails clamping tight onto her. “Freshly graduated, returning as an assistant to Hogwarts, and—if the rumors are correct—preparing to settle down with a certain someone?”

“How do you—?”

Rita takes a step closer, digging around in her handbag for something. The three of them watch as she withdraws an acid green quill and a piece of parchment. She sucks the end of the quill for a moment and puts the tip to the parchment, where they both float in midair, preparing to write. “ _ Witch Weekly _ loves a good forbidden romance story,” Rita replies, looking at Darcy expectantly. “And what better romance is there to write about than that of Darcy Potter and Remus Lupin—old friend of your parents’, previously your professor, and—perhaps the most interesting part—a recently outed—”

“That’s enough,” Emily snaps, quieting Rita immediately. “Darcy doesn’t want to give an interview about her possible romance, so drop it, would you?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Rita sneers. “If an eighteen-year-old girl can force me out of the Ministry of Magic, then I’ve chosen the wrong career. All I’m asking is—”

“This is my department that you’re in!” Ludo says suddenly, making Darcy jump, and she feels a sudden rush of affection for him. “If you’re going to treat Darcy like—”

“What’s going on here?”

Darcy, Emily, and Ludo turn quickly to see Mr. Weasley hustling towards them. He grabs Darcy’s scarred shoulder roughly, and Darcy knows that his fingers have felt them beneath her dress. Her heart starts to hammer in her chest and other people are now becoming drawn to the scene—more reporters are listening, and the occasional camera flashes. The buzz of conversation has quieted. Mr. Weasley pulls her to him, looking Rita Skeeter up and down. 

“They told me you were here,” Mr. Weasley says quietly to Rita Skeeter. “Leave this girl alone.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Rita replies, still sneering, eyes fixed upon Darcy’s face. “It’s a reporter’s dream to interview Darcy Potter—you probably remember everything, don’t you? Tell me, Darcy—has Arthur Weasley become something of a father figure to you? Are the rumors true that you and Remus Lupin were spotted in Diagon Alley together holding hands? This blossoming romance of yours—what a scandal!—did it start before or after he was sacked from—”

“He wasn’t sacked,” Darcy says, albeit quietly from Mr. Weasley’s side, blushing furiously. “He resigned.”

“But you don’t deny—”

“Leave her alone,” Emily growls. 

“Come on, Darcy, Emily—goodbye Ludo,” Mr. Weasley says again, dragging Darcy away from the scene. Rita watches them go, her quill writing quickly of its own accord. He leads her wordlessly to the lifts again, Emily trailing behind them, looking very flushed and flustered. 

“Mr. Weasley, I’m sorry—I didn’t know that Rita Skeeter would be there,” she says apologetically, squeezing through the grilles before they shut. Emily elbows a heavier witch aside to make room for her. “I only wanted to bring Darcy to see my mother—I had no idea—”

“Emily, you of all people should have known—”

“I’m sorry—!”

“Darcy,” Mr. Weasley says as they reach the second level again, his voice so soft that it frightens Darcy. Everyone else in the lift busies themselves by flipping through the newspaper or examining their fingernails, but Darcy knows they’re all listening. “I would like to speak to you in my office—alone. Say goodbye to Emily.”

Emily gives Darcy a sad look and speeds off the lift, back towards Auror Headquarters. Mr. Weasley leads Darcy through the office, a hand still upon her shoulder. Darcy spies Emily resuming her place at Tonks’s side, their heads together again, and Darcy feels a jealous pang in her heart for a brief moment before looking away and rounding a corner towards Mr. Weasley’s office.  _ That was supposed to be us, _ Darcy thinks, sighing heavily. 

Mr. Weasley opens the door to his office, and Darcy is first surprised at how small it is. It’s a little larger than a broom closet with two desks crammed inside, a few filing cabinets pressed against the walls. Someone is already inside the office, and as Mr. Weasley sits down behind his own desk, he murmurs, “Perkins—could you give us a minute? We won’t be long.”

As Perkins stands, confused, and leaves the office, Mr. Weasley motions for her to sit at the now empty desk. His ears are red, much like Ron’s get, and Darcy feels biles rise in her throat, much like it does before receiving a good smack from Vernon. 

It takes a few minutes for Mr. Weasley to gather his thoughts. Then, he clears his throat. “I want to apologize to you first,” he says. “I should have known better than to let you wander the Ministry with so much happening, and I should have known that would happen. I’m sorry.”

“Mr. Weasley, it’s—”

He holds his hand up to indicate she be quiet. Darcy shuts her mouth and Mr. Weasley takes his glasses off, rubbing his temples furiously. Tears well up in Darcy’s eyes and she purses her lips, waiting for him to shout. “I don’t even know what to say to you, Darcy,” he sighs. “Is it true? You’re involved with—you and him—your professor?”

She remains silent, and Mr. Weasley takes the silence to be her answer, correctly. 

“If you were my daughter, you would never leave me house again, do you understand that?”

Darcy nods ever so slightly. 

“As it happens, you are not my daughter, so I cannot enforce such punishment, but just know that I would—I absolutely would.” Mr. Weasley puts his glasses back on and stares at Darcy with a piercing gaze. “However, the fact that you are not my daughter does not mean I cannot give you my honest advice, and I need you to heed my words, Darcy, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

The look he gives her breaks her into a million pieces, and Darcy starts to cry in earnest, tears slipping down her cheeks. “What were you thinking, Darcy? Of all the things you have done, this has to be the stupidest,” he continues, his voice still dangerously calm. “You could have been expelled from Hogwarts, lost all of the opportunities that were offered to you—your reputation, your dignity—what were you thinking?”

Darcy feels the best thing to say is what he wants to hear. “I wasn’t thinking, sir.”

“No, you weren’t,” Mr. Weasley agrees. “No, you certainly were not. I should not have to tell you how inappropriate whatever you think you have going on is. You are eighteen-years-old, hardly an adult, and there is no reason for him to attempt to pursue something with you, graduated or not. He is old enough to be your father—there are plenty of older women in this world that he is more than welcome to.”

Looking away, Darcy wipes her tears.

“He is not to touch you ever again,” Mr. Weasley hisses, his face growing redder by the moment, making him look like a ripe tomato. “He is not to look at you, touch you, think about touching you, think about you at all, or so help me, Darcy—I will handle this situation myself if I have to. And the same goes for you. If I hear that you’ve so much as glanced in his direction, you will see a side of me that I have no desire to show you. Is that understood?”

Darcy pauses, knowing very well that despite Mr. Weasley’s words, she cannot throw away what she and Lupin have. “Yes, Mr. Weasley.”

Mr. Weasley gets to his feet, and the bile in Darcy’s throat burns. She flinches away, moving her chair back and pressing herself against the wall. Mr. Weasley stops dead in his tracks, furrowing his brow. His voice is suddenly soft and soothing. “What are you—oh, Darcy, I would never hit you—” He sits back down in his chair and Darcy watches him warily. His eyes scan Darcy’s face, looking at the tears in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. “Are you hungry?”

Darcy shrugs her shoulders and Mr. Weasley gets to his feet again. 

“Let’s go get some lunch,” he says, holding out a hand for Darcy. She takes it and walks around the desk, approaching Mr. Weasley. “My treat.”

She looks him over, love for Mr. Weasley nearly making her heart burst. Mr. Weasley, who upon finding out about she and Lupin, had not raised a single hand to her, had barely shouted or raised his voice, makes Darcy love him more and, at the same time, breaks her heart. She wonders what life would be like if Mr. Weasley has been her father and almost starts crying again. Overwhelmed with affection, Darcy hugs Mr. Weasley tight around the middle. He tenses for a second, and then hugs her back, kissing the top of her head.


	6. Chapter 6

Darcy and Mr. Weasley take lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, where much of the lunch rush has already passed. There’s a table near the back corner where they seat themselves and for a long time, they eat in awkward silence. Mr. Weasley tries for conversation every so often, asking about her N.E.W.T’s, Harry, or Hogwarts, but after receiving one word answers from Darcy, decides to give it up. Instead, he watches her push her food around—an overdone steak with dry mashed potatoes on the side. 

It’s not that Darcy is mad at Mr. Weasley or that she wants to be rude—in fact, her humiliation and extreme embarrassment has subsided much quicker than she’d expected—but her mind is racing. How long until Rita Skeeter tarnishes her reputation with a single stroke of her vile quill? How long until it’s revealed to everyone she knows that she and Lupin had crossed a line while she had been his student? How long until Sirius catches wind of these rumors? How will he react? What will he say—if anything?

Darcy feels foolish—weak. The slightest bit of attention and she had become so overwhelmed. At Hogwarts, she had been safe from the outside world—Dumbledore had made it so after she’d been harassed just once. At Privet Drive, she is safe, and the only person who dotes on her there is Mrs. Figg, one of the strangest people she’s ever known. There are no Ludo Bagman’s at either of those places, no Rita Skeeter’s—but how many of these people will pester her now about petty details of her life?

“Mr. Weasley,” she rasps, stabbing her steak with her fork. “Do you think I could tell you something? Maybe get your opinion on it?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Weasley says with a small smile, seemingly eager at her attempt to finally start a conversation. Darcy smiles back weakly from behind her napkin, lowering it into her lap and looking blankly down at her plate. “What is it?”

“It’s something Aunt Petunia told me a little while ago and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it,” she murmurs, pursing her lips. Forcibly reminding herself of her aunt, Darcy relaxes her face and rearranges her expression, trying not to look as affected. “She told me, when we were out in the garden together, that men would always take an interest in me in our—the Wizarding World—especially if they knew my mother.” Darcy pauses for a moment, toying with her fork again, but not eating. “Do you think—do you think there is any truth to what she said?”

Mr. Weasley tenses suddenly, his fork halfway to his mouth. He looks at Darcy for a long time before lowering it back to his plate. “Yes,” he answers quietly. “I do think there’s some truth to it. And I think you should be wary of it, as well. You’re a pretty girl who survived a terrible tragedy—”

“I’m not a survivor,” Darcy mutters, looking down into her lap, examining her fingernails. “Voldemort—”

“—don’t say his name, Darcy—”

“—You-Know-Who never tried to kill me. It was Harry. Instead, I was hiding behind my baby brother, afraid and crying.”

“You were barely five-years-old,” Mr. Weasley replies firmly. “No one would have expected you to jump in front of him. And if you had, who’s to say you wouldn’t be the one wearing that scar?”

Darcy hesitates. “I’d rather it be me,” she states very matter of factly, set in her beliefs. “Anything to take the burden off Harry’s shoulders. It should have been me. I should have protected him.”

“Maybe you would bear that scar, Darcy,” he frowns. “Maybe the curse would have done the same to you—we’ll never know. But it also could have killed you.”

Darcy is quiet, resuming the pushing around of her food. She remembers the scene—she’d dreamed of it so many time before, it’s hard not recall it so vividly—and remembers her mother falling limply to the ground, remembers the hooded Voldemort moving closer to Harry’s crib, where Darcy had sat there and cried. But she can’t remember what had been going through her head at the time—but Mr. Weasley does raise a good point. Darcy had only been five-years-old. Is that too much to expect from a five-year-old? To instinctively protect their little brother? To shield their little brother from a curse that will likely kill both of them? Isn’t that the job of the older sibling—to protect, to sacrifice? 

She thinks hard. She can’t really remember a time where she wouldn’t have died for Harry. Sure, she’d hated every fiber of his being for a long time until she stopped dwelling on her parents’ death—but that wouldn’t have stopped her from sacrificing herself for him without hesitation. Harry is her brother—her family. Their mother died for them, their father died for them—they made the ultimate sacrifice.  _ Should I have jumped between Harry and the curse? What would my life be like now if I bore that scar upon my forehead instead of Harry? _

Desperate to get her mind off of this depressing train of thought, Darcy looks back up at Mr. Weasley pleadingly. “But surely people don’t just like me because they think I’m pretty,” she says, hoping Mr. Weasley will not tell her truth, but just comforting things she wants to hear. “Why should people be concerned about who I”—Darcy blushes—“love—and why do they treat me like I’m—I don’t know—”

Mr. Weasley frowns. “Because you are a pretty girl and you are a Potter. And it will always be so.” He sits up a little straighter in his chair, clearing his throat quietly. “Darcy, I believe, when you are a little older, the Ministry and the  _ Daily Prophet _ are going to rely on you very much.”

“Why me?” Darcy asks gloomily. “Why not Harry? He’s the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“You are older, much more articulate and well-spoken when you want to be, and a very charming girl. Your words and opinions will be very important to them, I believe, because they’ll see those words and opinions as Harry’s, as well.” But Mr. Weasley notices that he isn’t making things better and decides to try a different tack. “Darcy, you cannot listen to what those people say about you. They will write things that are true and they will write things that are not. But he important thing is—you’re the only one who knows the truth—you, and the people who love you. That should be all you need. You have nothing to prove to anyone.”

_ You have nothing to prove to anyone. _

How many times has Darcy said those words, or a variation of them, to Harry? How many times had Harry approached her in the corridors at school, frustrated beyond belief, at what people were saying?  _ Snape thinks I’m arrogant and foolish like dad,  _ he’d said.  _ They think I’m the Heir of Slytherin,  _ he’d said.  _ They think I’m crazy,  _ he’d said—multiple times. Even at Privet Drive, Harry had become angry quickly at the Dursleys short retorts, rude jabs at their parents, especially Marge, who took pleasure in seeing Harry riled up. Darcy had always told him the same thing: “You have nothing to prove to those people.”

But their words had still stung her, still made her heart ache at night. No matter how many times she had given Harry that advice with a smile, she’d never been able to apply it to herself. All that had mattered was that Harry wasn’t dwelling on it, wasn’t lying in bed unable to sleep because of it.

Darcy leans back in her chair, looking at Mr. Weasley very intensely, as if seeing him for the first time. She’d never asked him before, but now seems like a good time to—but Darcy isn’t sure she’s prepared to hear his answer. Regardless, she plunges on. “Why do you take such an interest in me, Mr. Weasley?” she asks, and Mr. Weasley looks surprised. “Why do you bring me to your work instead of one of your own children? Why do you visit me at Hogsmeade? Why does it matter so much to you who I’m involved with?”

Darcy realizes her tone must sound rather accusing, and her expression softens. She gives Mr. Weasley a slightly apologetic look. “Darcy, my children are old enough to want some distance between anything that proves we love each other,” Mr. Weasley smiles weakly. “You were so frightened when I found you crying on Ginny’s floor. You were sixteen-years-old and I knew that no one had ever comforted you after a nightmare, and it broke my heart.”

Darcy’s cheeks turn pink again, and she has a hard time looking him in the eyes for a minute or two. It embarrasses her, for a moment, that Mr. Weasley could tell straight away that she had never known—as far as she can remember— the loving embrace of such comforting arms. But that was before Sirius—before she’d started dreaming of him again. Darcy almost feels as if what she wants to say is a massive betrayal on her part towards Sirius, but she wants to say it anyway. 

“Rita Skeeter was right, you know,” Darcy whispers. Thinking of Sirius, of the family she could have had, makes tears prickle painfully in her eyes again. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a real father. I barely remember my own.”

Mr. Weasley smiles, and Darcy thinks she sees his eyes shine wet with tears for the briefest moment. “In another life, Darcy, you’d have been my daughter,” Mr. Weasley says. “And none of this would ever have happened to you.”

They finish their meals—Darcy not touching any of her food—in silence.

* * *

 

No story about Darcy is published in the  _ Daily Prophet _ in the weeks that follow, and she makes sure to scour every page just in case. 

July rolls into August, and with it comes letters that carry promises of an escape from Privet Drive. Emily arranges to have the same days off as Mr. Weasley in order for Darcy to leave at the same time as her brother; Gemma, who’s made plans to go to the World Cup with Gemma, promises to talk further with her about Lupin’s decision to move forward with her offer; Carla sends Harry and Darcy some sweets that they both find slightly repulsive, and many, many photographs for them to sort through. Darcy holds her breath when she receives a letter from Sirius, but there’s no mention of her and Lupin in it, and he only makes empty promises of their being a family soon, how Darcy will have a place to go away from the Dursleys—but this doesn’t make Darcy feel better. It only makes her feel like a child—is she really supposed to live with her godfather for years, while her friends make their own way in the world, starting careers and moving out of their parents’ house. Each time she thinks about it, the gnawing sensation in Darcy’s stomach gets worse as she thinks about the direction she’s headed in life—stuck at Privet Drive, returning to Hogwarts to be with Harry under the pretense of being Snape’s assistant. 

Lupin writes her a few letters, as well, and these are always Darcy’s favorites. They’re always full of the same things for the most part—he pleads for her to come back to him, if only just for a day, promises to take care of her, sends her reassuring words of comfort when she needs them. She takes to reading them over and over again, and occasionally flipping through the photographs of themselves. 

Looking down at the picture in her hands now, the first one Darcy had taken at the market, she smiles. He’s handsome, just as she’s always thought him—his hair a soft brown color, streaked with gray, always tousled and falling across his forehead; with such a smile on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners, it’s hard to see the exact hazel of his eyes, but Darcy doesn’t need to see them to know—of course she knows the exact shade of his eyes, just as she knows everything else without having to see. 

She sets the picture on her bedside table, propping it against a framed picture of she and Harry on his first day at Hogwarts. The next photograph is of both she and Lupin, his face buried in her neck, trying to avoid the camera. Darcy can still feel his smile against her skin, the rough caress of his beard against flesh. She props hat picture beside the one of just Lupin and puts the rest of them away.

Settling back down in her bed, she stares up at the ceiling, suddenly deciding to go one step further. Darcy grabs the picture of her and Lupin and sticks it to the wall beside her other pictures, just above her bed. Her eyes move to the picture of she and Harry, of she and her friends, and finally—to the torn photograph of herself in Sirius’s lap, surrounded by her parents and Lupin’s smiling faces. Sirius is smiling up at her from the sofa, a wide smile across his still handsome face—a face that is much different than the one he wears now. Guilt washes over her like a tidal wave, ashamed of saying what she’d said to Mr. Weasley. But it’s true—Mr. Weasley has been good to her for the past two years—far better to her than she deserves. And he’s been good to Harry, and that in itself means a lot to Darcy. 

And so the days tick away, and with each morning, Darcy crosses off another day on her calendar. Petunia keeps her busy, but doesn’t mention anything in regards to the conversation they’d had weeks ago, and Darcy—when not doing chores for her aunt—spends her free time locked in her room with Max or else with Harry. The two of them are quite good at keeping her smiling, between Max nibbling at her earlobes and nuzzling against her while he recovers from a journey, and Harry telling stories of his time at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione. 

One morning, Harry startles Darcy by bursting into her room before she’s even awake. She sits up straight, grabbing her wand from under her pillow and pointing it at him in the threshold, her heart hammering. Harry freezes and Darcy lowers her wand, looking him over. His hair is a mess, having just woken up, and he’s sweating slightly—it drips down his ghostly white face, and his lightning bolt scar seems angry and almost inflamed this morning. 

Darcy sits up quickly, rubbing her eyes and stuffing her wand back under her pillow. “What’s going on?” she asks quickly, pulling her knees to her chest so Harry has room to sit down. “You can’t just barge in on me, by the way—I could have killed you.”

“I have to tell you something, before I forget,” Harry says quickly, ignoring her. “I had a dream—it was—” A crease appears between his eyebrows and Darcy cocks one of her’s. “A dark  room—” Harry closes his eyes and rubs his scar. “Wormtail was there, and Voldemort… and…”

Darcy feels chills down her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

“There was another—I don’t know who—an old man,” he continues, avoiding looking at Darcy’s horrified expression. “They were planning to…” For the first time, he meets Darcy’s eyes, green into green. “They were planning to kill me.”

Even in the dawn darkness of her bedroom, Darcy and Harry register each other’s looks of shock. She gets to her feet and takes a look out the window at the dim street before closing the blinds ands and turning on the lamp on her desk. “Harry, you should write to Sirius,” she whispers, holding her arms around her. “Or to Professor Dumbledore—if Wormtail actually managed to find Voldemort—”

“Which he has,” Harry interrupts, and Darcy gives him a withering stare. “I haven’t forgotten Trelawney’s prediction.”

Darcy feels her stomach churn. “You’re sure this was real?” she asks softly. “You sure it wasn’t just a dream?”

“I’m sure.” Harry pauses, narrowing his eyes at his sister. “You  _ do _ believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” Darcy knows the feeling of being doubted—after all, how many times had people told her last year that her dreams about Sirius were only that—just dreams? It had felt better than anything to find out the truth, to know that they weren’t only real, but that the love she’d felt afterwards had been real, too. But Harry’s dream is terrifying, to know that Voldemort may soon rise again is terrifying. Anger bubbles inside of her at the thought of Peter Pettigrew.  _ He should have died on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. I should have let Lupin and Sirius kill him.  _ But she doesn’t want to voice this to Harry. “Look, Sirius night know some things about Voldemort after being in Azkaban for so long. Did you see his face? In your dream?”

Harry thinks hard again, his face screwed up in concentration. “I think he was—small, or…”

“He was small?”

“I woke up before I saw his face.”

“He wasn’t small when I saw him,” Darcy says, more to herself. She faces the window again, peering through the blinds. Trying not to think of Voldemort plotting to kill her little brother, Darcy repeats herself. “You should write to Sirius and Dumbledore.”

“You’re not freaking out,” Harry replies flatly.

Darcy turns around again to face him, looking confused. “Would you prefer I freak out?”

“No, but you not freaking out kind of makes me want to freak out. You always freak out when I’m in danger. Darcy, you cried at my first Quidditch match because you were worried I’d die, and I’ve just told you Voldemort is trying to kill me and you’ve barely batted an eye.”

“That was an emotional day for me,” Darcy snaps, and then she looks down at her hands, which are trembling very slightly. Her mind races, and she wonders for a brief second—why isn’t she more scared? Harry has a point about her being so calm, but Darcy chalks it up to not being completely awake yet. “Dumbledore knew something like this was going to happen.”

“What?”

“Why else would he have wanted me back at Hogwarts?” Darcy asks, her heart racing again. “He knew that you would be in danger this year—I don’t know how, but… right?”

Harry doesn’t seem very convinced. “I don’t know,” he shrugs, shifting uncomfortably on Darcy’s bed. “I mean… we don’t even know if this was real… maybe we should find out what’s really going on before I write Dumbledore about my scar hurting.”

“Harry, your scar hasn’t hurt for a long time,” she sighs impatiently, crossing her arms  over her chest. “Dumbledore would want to know. And so would Sirius.”

“I’ll write to Sirius, and if he thinks that I should write to Dumbledore, then I will.” Harry waits for Darcy to reply, but she only nods slowly. “Do you think Lupin would know anything? Anything about cursed scars or—or what Wormtail is up to?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy says quietly. “I can send a letter with Max if you’d like to ask.”

“No, no—don’t worry about it,” Harry grumbles, his cheeks turning pink. “I’ll just write to Sirius… but you know what’s funny…” He gets to his feet and walks to the door of Darcy’s bedroom. With a hand on the doorknob, and a very distant expression on his face, he says, “I don’t really remember the dream at all anymore…”

“Harry,” Darcy croaks, stopping him before he can open the door. “You know, whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”

“I know. We always have.”

But as Harry slips out of her bedroom, Darcy quickly locks the door again, pressing her back against it and sighing heavily. She rushes to the window and looks out at the street once more—surely they aren’t being followed? Surely Pettigrew doesn’t know where they are—or does he? Darcy tears her eyes away from the window, afraid that she’ll see something—someone—that she doesn’t want to walking down towards their house. 

Darcy digs through her desk drawer, finding a piece of old paper that’s now slightly yellow instead of the white it had been, and finds a pencil. It’s only then she realizes how strange it is to hold a pencil after writing with a quill for so long. 

_ I think Wormtail found Voldemort. We think Voldemort plotting to kill Harry. Please write back right away. Harry sending letter to Sirius. _

_ Yours, _

_ Darcy _

Darcy opens Max’s cage, where the owl has only just returned to, but coaxes him down onto her arm. Max shifts to make himself more comfortable, ruffles his feather, and then jumps  to Darcy’s scarred shoulder, holding onto her tightly with his talons. Darcy strokes his feathers once and then rolls up the letter, rummaging around for something to tie it to Max’s leg with. She find a broken ponytail holder and uses that, which works out quite well. 

“To Remus, Max,” she whispers, letting Max rub his beak all over her face. “And quickly.”

She opens the blinds and window for Max, and as he pushes off her shoulder and spreads his wings, she hisses after him, “And leave his fingers alone!”

There’s a soft hoot, and Max soars out of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who’s reading this. I’m going through some shit right now, and writing is pretty much my only outlet, so expect quite a few updates very, very quickly. Thanks again.


	7. Chapter 7

_Darcy,_

_I appreciate you writing to me. Unfortunately, I don’t have much experienced with cursed scars, but I would suggest Harry write to Dumbledore immediately. I’m sure he’d like to know. I’m not sure there’s much Padfoot would be able to do for Harry, anyway._

_I won’t deny that it’s worrying, and we can only hope that it was only a dream, but all the same—you and Harry must keep your eyes open. If anything out of the ordinary happens, let one of us know. If it’s true that Voldemort is gaining_ _power again, the best thing to do is begin to fight back before he becomes powerful like he was before._

_I’m sorry I don’t have more answers for you. I hope the World Cup will distract you for the time being—I’m sure you’ll have fun. Write me when you get back to Hogwarts—or before, if you find yourself missing me before then._

_Yours,_

_Remus_

_P.S. My memory is slipping—I’m an old man after all. A picture of you would be sweet. I worry I may soon forget your face._

* * *

 

“Aunt Petunia, I’m leaving!”

Darcy lets her trunk fall noisily down the last few steps, and the noise attracts Petunia in from the kitchen. She gives Darcy a dangerous look, her hands shielded by yellow cleaning gloves. “Where are you going?” Petunia hisses, glancing from the trunk to Darcy to the caged owl in her right hand. “Are you coming back?”

“No, Aunt Petunia, I’ve told you,” Darcy sighs, lifting her trunk and struggling under the weight of Max and her belongings. “I’m going to Emily’s for the World Cup, and then I’m staying at Harry’s friend’s house until I go back to—er—school.”

“And what of the offer I made?” Petunia asks, her voice lower. She peels her gloves off and crosses her arms, trying to look menacing, but Petunia’s bony face and slight figure does nothing to Darcy.

“I don’t want that,” Darcy says. “I want to go back to school with Harry.”

“You leaving, Darcy?”

Darcy glances up the stairs at Harry, standing on the second floor landing. She smiles at him and nods. “Yeah.” Looking once more back at Petunia, Darcy purses her lips. “I don’t want to work a job that I hate, or marry a boy I don’t like. I have friends at school. I’m good at what I’ll be helping with. I want to go back. I belong there.”

Petunia purses her lips, glancing sideways at Harry, making his way down the stairs. She leaves the siblings alone in the entrance hallway. Darcy puts Max’s cage gently on the ground and releases her grip on her trunk as Harry jumps the last three steps and lands in front of her. Harry looks over his shoulder to make sure Petunia is indeed gone, and then rocks back and forth on his feet.

“Why’d you tell Lupin about my scar?” Harry hisses.

Darcy blushes, trying to act casual. “How do you know I wrote to him?”

Harry looks sheepish and turns his gaze upon Max, ruffling his feathers. “I saw the letter on your desk.”

She doesn’t answer or apologize—for one, she isn’t sorry. Max had returned within a day of delivering Darcy’s letter, and while she had been disappointed by Lupin’s lack of an answer, it was nice to see his handwriting again and his letter did leave a smile on her face. “Look, Harry, have you thought about telling Emily? I told you I’d tell her, and now is your last chance to let me know.”

“What’s Emily going to do?” Harry asks with a shrug, rubbing his scar out of habit. “Darcy, I told you—I don’t know if they were really talking about the Cup… I mean… I can’t really remember now…”

“Emily could tell an Auror,” Darcy replies slightly desperate. “And you know she’d do all she could to protect you—”

“She doesn’t need to know that I’m having dreams about Voldemort,” Harry frowns. Without anything else to say to her, Harry sighs. “I’ll see you there.”

Darcy leaves the house, dragging her trunk down the street and deciding to Disapparate from the same narrow alleyway that Mr. Weasley had brought her just a few weeks ago.

* * *

The first time Darcy had visited Emily’s house, it had been like walking into a dream. They had picked her up in Mr. Duncan’s car, and Vernon had turned red-faced at the sight of it—shiny in the sunlight, so clean Darcy could see her reflection perfectly in the black paint, luxurious on the outside and inside, where Darcy’s thighs had stuck to the leather interior. Emily had been there, sitting in the passenger seat and fiddling with the radio, her feet up on the dashboard as the wonderful sound of disorganized and messy rock music drifted from the speakers. Mr. Duncan had sung along with his twelve-year-old daughter and occasionally threw Darcy a reassuring smile in the rearview mirror as they drove back to their home.

When Mr. Duncan had pulled into the driveway all those years ago, Darcy had been dumbstruck at the sight of Emily’s house. Considering all Darcy really ever knew was Privet Drive, the sight of such a different style of housing had shocked her. The Duncan estate was three times the size of Petunia and Vernon’s house and unlike anything Darcy had ever seen before. Even now, as Darcy rounds the corner of the street and the house comes into view, she’s still rather impressed by it. The lawn looks to be freshly mown, greener than Darcy has ever seen a lawn at Privet Drive, and vibrant colored flowers line the path to the front door—shades of purples and pinks and blues and yellows. A large willow tree in the front yard casts the cobblestone walkway into shadow, protecting Darcy from the afternoon sun.

Before Darcy can knock on the door, someone calls her name, and when she turns around wildly, she sees Mr. Duncan jogging towards her from behind the house.

Darcy’s always thought Mr. Duncan a good looking man, his yellow-blonde hair parted off to the side, big blue eyes, and a smile that reveals his straight, white teeth—very similar in looks to Emily. When he approaches Darcy, he picks up her trunk with ease and lets Darcy hold Max’s cage.

“We can go in the back door,” he says, leading her around the side of the house where he’s just come from. “Emily said you’d gotten an owl. What’s its name?”

“Max,” Darcy answers and Max hoots softly at his name before tucking his beak in his feathers and falling asleep.

“You can keep him in the shed with Demeter,” Mr. Duncan continues. He chuckles, and Darcy smiles. “You know—magic, I’ve gotten used to. I envy my wife sometimes, especially when it’s my turn to cook dinner. But owls—I’ll never get used to owls.” He looks sideways at Darcy as he opens the door to the shed, where an eagle owl is perched up in the corner. “Dursleys been all right to you this summer?”

“Better than usual,” she admits, and Mr. Duncan gives her an almost too-understanding-look. “How has work been?”

“Just last week I closed a sale on a beautiful house I know you would have loved,” Mr. Duncan says. “If you’re in the market for a home, now is a perfect time. Prices are lower this time of year—and dropping steadily.”

Darcy opens Max’s cage and he nips at her fingers before flying up to join the Duncan’s owl. She leaves his cage in a corner and then turns to follow Mr. Duncan through the backyard towards a screen door that leads into the kitchen. “Is Mrs. Duncan here?” she asks, peeking into the sitting room as she crosses the threshold.

“Beth’s at work,” he smiles. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news about the tournament they’re restarting? Beth’s very well connected, you know, and she’s been working hard. Truthfully, I don’t understand much of it, but she’s happy when I nod along to what she’s saying. I think she forgets sometimes that I’m not a wizard.”

“Are you coming with us to the World Cup?”

“No,” he laughs. “I’m sure it’ll be fun, but no. Emily’s in her room, Darcy.”

Emily’s room is the same as Darcy remembers it when she’d first visited. Stationary and moving posters cover the walls—musicians, movie stars, artwork that Darcy really doesn’t find all that appealing. In one corner, blank canvases rest against the wall, surrounded by finished paintings and drawings and paint in every color Darcy can think of. In another corner, a large, white vanity with lights around the mirrors, the table covered with makeup and nail polish, brushes and smaller mirrors. The room is very clean, in contrast to Darcy, who’s bedroom is always fairly cluttered. Emily’s clothes and robes hang neatly in her large closet, and old newspapers are stacked neatly on her desk, beside a blank piece of paper and a pen.

Emily’s sitting in bed on the other side of the room, her hair thrown up on the top of her head, thick-framed reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, watching television. This is new to Darcy, as Emily’s never had one in her room before.

They lay in bed for a long time, eating popcorn from a large bowl, shoulder to shoulder as the sun continues to lower in the sky. Emily flips through the channels lazily, not with the remote, but with her wand. They share small talk—Emily apologizes again for what happened at the Ministry and Darcy tells her what she and Mr. Weasley had discussed afterwards.

Emily laughs when Darcy tells her of Mr. Weasley chastising her for her relationship with Lupin, and instead of feeling angry about Emily’s reaction, she feels hurt. Feeling extremely resentful, Darcy thinks of Gemma—Gemma wouldn’t laugh at her, Gemma would reassure her, would smile and tell her that Lupin is wonderful, that no one but they know the truth. Even so, anger does begin to surge through her anyway after Darcy fails to control it. “Don’t laugh at me,” she hisses at Emily. “You don’t know what it’s like. He’s good to me.”

“I’m laughing because Mr. Weasley yelled at you because of a boy,” Emily says, chuckling still to herself. “You’re not his daughter. He’s not your father.”

“But I love him like one,” Darcy whispers. “Is that strange? Do you think Sirius would be hurt by that?”

Emily shrugs slightly. “Do you write to Sirius?”

“Yes.” Darcy smiles at the thought of receiving another letter from her godfather. Her smile quickly fades, however. “I wish I could see him—talk to him. I wish I could hug him.”

But Emily, not the hopeless romantic that Darcy has always been, only gives her a sideways glance, and Mr. Duncan, too tired to make dinner, brings them some food he’s ordered. Lying in bed watching television and eating cheap food from takeout boxes, Darcy suddenly feels at such peace with the world that she only half-forgets about wanting to tell Emily about Harry’s scar.

Struggling with chopsticks, Darcy glances at the television. “Too much dancing.”

Emily replies with a mouthful of food. “It’s a musical.” She lowers her wand, letting the musical play out. “We’ve seen this one. With mum, remember?”

“It was better at the theater, but—” Darcy puts her chopsticks down and picks up a fork that had been resting on her thigh. “—the songs are pretty good, I guess.”

“How’s Harry? Did he get my present?”

“Yeah—clothes are always a good gift for him. Saves me from fixing his old one.”

Darcy puts her food down, looking over at Emily, who’s fixated on the television. “I rarely ever get to do this anymore,” Emily sighs contently, expertly shoving rice into her mouth using chopsticks. “The Ministry’s been working my ass off, and I’ve been helping mum down at the office.”

“What are the Aurors up to, anyway?” Darcy wonders, trying to sound casual. “Are they still trying to find Sirius?” The idea has been plaguing her ever since seeing the wanted posters of him racked up at Auror’s cubicles, and it angers her to know that Peter Pettigrew is still out there, breathing air, living, possibly at his master’s side…

“A few are, I think,” Emily shrugs. “Most of what they do is hushed up and kept secret—that, or they just don’t want a brand new recruit listening in.” Emily hesitates, raising a single eyebrow at Darcy. “They’ve told you what’s happening at Hogwarts this year, haven’t they?”

“Yeah,” Darcy replies warily. “Mr. Weasley took me to meet Ludo Bagman and they told me about it. You don’t think it’s dangerous, do you?”

“Ludo and I aren’t really best friends, so he hasn’t told me much about it,” Emily admits. “But they’re supposed to be taking security and safety really seriously. They aren’t permitting anyone under seventeen, and you know Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it if it wasn’t safe.”

Darcy gives Emily an incredulous look, sitting up straight and tucking her legs under her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“What?”

Darcy counts on her fingers. “Last year, Dumbledore allowed dementors to be stationed at Hogwarts, despite knowing how they affected Harry,” she starts, and Emily listens with raised eyebrows. “There are acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest—spiders that almost ate Harry, Ron, and I, by the way—there was a basilisk Petrifying people, there was a three-headed-dog in the school, one of our teachers had Voldemort on the back of his head—”

“You’re getting hysterical,” Emily snaps. “Would you calm down and let me get a damn word in?”

“Go on, then,” Darcy growls, laying back on the pillow and watching the television again.

“There were dementors there to protect us from an—assumed—mass murderer,” Emily reels off. “Dumbledore told us every year that the Forbidden Forest was off limits, so that’s on you—Dumbledore also got carted away after so many kids got Petrified, so what could he have done about the Chamber of Secrets? He couldn’t have done anything. And all right—the Quirrel thing was weird, but he fooled all of us. We were used to odd teachers, weren’t we?”

Darcy looks Emily in the eyes, thinking hard for a minute. But she stops herself quickly, knowing that she’ll think her way out of telling Emily. “I think Voldemort is planning something for the World Cup.”

Emily looks bewildered. “What are you talking about?” she snorts. “How could he possibly? No one really knows what happened to him. And besides, the Aurors would know.”

“But you just said it yourself—they probably just don’t want you to know about it!” Darcy retorts, her heart beginning to race. “Listen, Harry had a dream last night, and his scar was hurting afterwards…” She lowers her voice. “Peter Pettigrew found Voldemort—they were talking about killing Harry, and Harry thinks he remembers them mentioning Quidditch and he couldn’t really remember much… but things kept coming to him for a little while afterwards…”

“Like Harry was misremembering it?”

“No—it was just… I don’t know, disjointed. Like every new memory filled in another gap.”

“How do you know it wasn’t just a dream?” Emily asks with a slight crease between her eyebrows. “As horrible as it is, it was probably just a dream.”

“You said that about my dreams last year,” Darcy reminds her, in a lower voice still. “And they turned out to be real memories, remember? And I told you—his scar hurt after it. That’s has to mean something, right?”

Emily looks at her for a long time, considering her. Darcy hopes that Emily will believe her—why wouldn’t she? Harry had questioned Darcy relentlessly for twenty minutes at one point before she’d left for Emily’s, and Darcy had kept up her hollow reassurances that everything would be okay. Harry didn’t wish Darcy to tell Emily, but if anything, she’d be able to help, wouldn’t she? She would be able to go straight to the Aurors with this tip, she could stop something from happening—and Emily could do that without mentioning Harry, couldn’t she? But Darcy has to admit, it would seem very suspicious for Emily to approach an Auror and give him this information without giving away a source.

“You really believe Harry? You truly believe Voldemort is planning something for the World Cup?” Emily whispers, narrowing her eyes.

“Yes,” Darcy answers breathlessly.

“Then we have to tell someone,” Emily says firmly, and Darcy nods. “There may be a few Auror’s who would hear me out—Kingsley night listen, but he would definitely want to know exactly how I knew that. Oh—Darcy! We should tell Tonks!”

Darcy pauses, pursing her lips in a very Aunt Petunia sort of way. She remembers how it had felt to see Emily and Tonks giggling, heads together, working towards a career that Darcy always had tucked away in the back of her mind. “Maybe—maybe we could just keep it to ourselves.” Darcy chews on her lip. “Maybe it was just a dream.”

“If you think something is going to happen, we can’t just let it,” Emily insists. “If we tell Tonks, she can tell Mad-Eye Moody and he’ll listen! I’m sure he won’t ask too many questions of her—he’ll take any lead he can get. I’m sure she’s at the Ministry—she’s been working long hours…” Emily glances at her alarm clock on her bedside table.

Darcy knows this is the right thing to do, but she doesn’t want to do it. “Maybe we could tell Mr. Weasley,” Darcy suggests weakly. “He’d believe us. You know he would.”

“No offense, but Mr. Weasley doesn’t really have a whole lot of pull within the Auror office.” Emily sighs, looking apologetic. “There’s been no word of anything relating to Voldemort. Are you absolutely sure about this?”

But Emily’s doubts have already burrowed under Darcy’s skin, and now she isn’t sure. On one hand, if she were to tell someone about Harry’s dream, it could prevent very bad things happening at the World Cup—or could it? The Quidditch World Cup is only a day away, and Darcy isn’t sure how long it will take to bulk up security—and Darcy doesn’t even know what security will be like. She’s never been to a large Wizarding gathering like this before. Surely the Ministry of Magic will be able to handle something? Yet on the other hand, if she does tell someone about Harry’s dream and it turns out that a dream is all it is… Harry would be furious that Darcy had revealed information, would be furious that Darcy chose to go to the Ministry of Magic—to the Aurors. Darcy had already told Lupin after Harry asked her not to, but this is serious, isn’t it? At what point is Darcy obligated to run to someone else?

“Does Lupin know? Has anyone told Sirius? Dumbledore?”

Darcy snaps out of it and drags a hand through her hair. “Harry wrote to Sirius and I wrote to Lupin, but—Harry didn’t want to bother Dumbledore.” She sighs. “But I wrote to Lupin before Harry mentioned that thing about Quidditch, and he doesn’t know much about Harry’s scar. There wasn’t anything he could do, or much for him to say.”

Emily is quiet for a long time and they both watch the finishing number of the musical on the television. The bright light starts to hurt Darcy’s eyes in the growing darkness and she looks at Emily again, watching the actors and actresses dance in the reflection on Emily’s glasses. Finally, Emily says, “I’m sure it will be fine.” But Darcy has a feeling Emily doesn’t truly believe that. However, she persists. “Look, the Quidditch World Cup is going to be under tight security already, and the Aurors will be there, as well. If Voldemort was planning something, I’m sure he would know the World Cup is a bad target. Everyone would know he’s back.”

Darcy doesn’t reply, but Emily does have a point. It would seem stupid for Voldemort to openly attack at the Quidditch World Cup, where not only British wizards and witches will be, but wizards from Bulgaria and who knows where else. Voldemort isn’t stupid, and he’d know better than to show himself to all of those people—to risk showing his face to the Aurors—if he even has a face. Harry had admitted he hadn’t really seen Voldemort, only that he was small, but Darcy isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. Why would he be small? Does that mean he’s not as strong?

Thinking about Voldemort makes Darcy’s head throb painfully. She wonders how Harry is—the Weasleys were supposed to pick him up today to take him back to the Burrow. He wonders if he’s told Ron about his scar and dream, or if he’s told Mr. Weasley. She wonders if his scar still aches, and Darcy absentmindedly rubs her forehead, trying to ease the pain of her headache.

She puts all of her trash on the nightstand beside her, the leftover food she wasn’t able to finish, her wand, her chopsticks and fork. Darcy settles back on her pillow and Emily imitates her, taking her glasses off and turning the television to low volume, barely audible. Darcy doesn’t mind the flickering lights of whatever program is coming on next, and closes her eyes, one of her legs covered by Emily’s, and their arms touching.

Until very recently, sleeping beside Emily had been more comforting than anyone could have imagined. But now, Darcy tries to hide her disappointment, wishing that it was Lupin beside her—her Remus Lupin, with an arm around her, holding onto her as if she is the only real thing in the world, clutching at her hand as if letting go means losing her. To have him beside her would be a blessing—a warm chest to nuzzle into, an exposed neck begging to be kissed, a tired smile playing on his lips when Darcy moves closer to him.

Upon waking the following morning, Darcy’s groggy and still tired, having not slept well throughout the night. With Mrs. Duncan poking her head into Emily’s room announcing the time, Darcy is overcome with feelings of dread, probably intensified by the fact that she’d awoken beside Emily instead of Lupin.

Emily talks her ear off, excited to watch a professional game of Quidditch, but Darcy barely hears her. Plagued by images of last night’s dreams—of flashes of green light, of Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew, of Harry lying motionless on the floor like their mother had been—Darcy showers and dresses in silence, her fingers flexing, itching for a hand to hold as she prepares to leave for the World Cup, unsure as to whether or not she and Harry will even leave there alive.


	8. Chapter 8

The campsite reserved for the Duncans is a perfect spot, in Darcy’s opinion. A few rustling trees surround the area, giving them enough shade to keep them cool and comfortable in the grass just outside the tent, and they’re close enough to the water pump to not have to worry about making a journey to and from every time they’re in need. When Mrs. Duncan and her work friend, Faye, set up the tent with a few lazy motions with their wands, Emily scouts the area for people they know and Darcy lounges in a camp chair, dark sunglasses on her face, legs stretched out in front of her.

“Come check out this tent, Darcy,” Emily urges, disappearing into it.

Darcy reluctantly gets to her feet and follows Emily inside the tent, stopping with one foot inside the tent. Lowering her sunglasses, her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline, Darcy looks around, dumbfounded. The tent is much, much bigger on the inside and is much, much nicer. Mrs. Duncan is in the kitchen—a full kitchen complete with a table to eat around and several dining chairs, one of which is taken by Faye, an older woman with gray hair and a young face. To Darcy’s left is a door that’s cracked open, leading to a bathroom, and to her right, half concealed by a flap of canvas, are three bunkbeds. Behind the bunkbeds is another flap of canvas that leads to another small area where there’s a much larger bed. In the middle of the tent are severa armchairs and a loveseat, a long and low table, and a large and beautiful carpet underneath the furniture.

“You could pitch it in the Dursleys’ backyard,” Emily jokes, but Darcy seriously considers it for a moment.

“What do you think?” Mrs. Duncan asks, a playful smile upon her face as she looks over her shoulder at Darcy. “My husband looked much like you, Darcy, when he first saw the inside.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Darcy says truthfully. She turns to Emily. “Why haven’t we gone camping more often? With a tent like this, I would have been a little more willing.”

Emily only laughs.

Glancing at her watch, Darcy looks back up at Emily. “Let’s go see if we can find Harry.”

“Sure,” Emily says, grabbing her own sunglasses off a nearby table and making for the tent entrance. Darcy leads her back out into the bright sunlight. “Gemma and Carla should be here somewhere. They came together, and I think they took a Portkey. Should’ve arrived by now.”

They wander the area for a while, running into old friends and having quick conversations before moving on again. They meet Robert, Gemma’s ex-boyfriend, skulking around his extravagant tent a little ways away from Mrs. Duncan’s (“Do you know if she’s seeing anyone?”), their old roommates from Hogwarts (they end up all taking a shot of firewhiskey in the comfort of Julia’s tent), two Gryffindor boys in Harry’s year who eagerly wave hello to Darcy, and even Oliver Wood, who seems positively thrilled to be at the World Cup.

“Well, it’s official,” he tells them excitedly. “Just got signed to Puddlemere United reserve team.”

This means nothing to Darcy, who smiles enthusiastically, but Emily seems to know exactly what he’s talking about and looks mildly impressed. They don’t stay long to chat, but Darcy gives Oliver a half-hearted promise that they’ll stop by to chat after the game ends. When Darcy and Emily walk away, well out of earshot, they both giggle and weave a little faster through the large amount of people laughing with friends and family.

“Hey! Darcy! Emily!”

Darcy looks over quickly, her hair flicking Emily across the face as she turns her head. Sure enough, Gemma and Carla, typically inseparable, are running towards them, smiling as Gemma pulls Carla along by the hand.

Carla looks a different person without the stress of school weighing her down—traveling definitely suits her. Her dark cheeks appear flushed in the best way possible, giving life to her face and smile and eyes, her hair bounces dramatically with each step she takes, and she seems much fitter and much more toned than the last time Darcy has seen her.

Gemma, while still beautiful and clever-looking, does look a bit more tired than usual, and a bit older. Her dark hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, and she still walks with an elegance that has always inspired Darcy. But up close, Darcy notes the shadows under Gemma’s eyes that she usually associates with Lupin, a tiredness that Darcy’s never seen Gemma wear before.

“Robert was asking about you,” Emily tells Gemma, as they all exchange hugs. “Ran into him just a little bit ago.”

“What did he ask?” Gemma inquired, cocking a thin eyebrow. Before Emily can answer, Gemma quickly rearranges her features. “Never mind, I don’t really think I want to know.”

“Rumor has it you’ve been quite successful with a certain boy this summer,” Carla adds, grinning from ear and ear and giving herself away by looking at Gemma. “Did you really visit Lupin? At his house? How was it?”

“Yeah,” Gemma teases, looking at Darcy with a greedy expression, ready for details. “You never told me much about it. What did you do? Did you fuck like rabbits?”

Emily chokes. “Gemma!”

“Look, I’m not getting any,” Gemma replies calmly, placing a hand on Darcy’s shoulder and looking at Emily, “so I have to live vicariously through Darcy until I am getting some.” Gemma lowers her voice, looking Darcy in the face with a small smile as Emily scoffs and starts talking to Carla. “Did you though? Fuck like rabbits?”

Darcy blushes, smiling slyly, but doesn’t answer.

“You naughty, naughty girl. You’ll tell me later, won’t you? After we get rid of Emily?” Gemma laughs, and Darcy can’t suppress her smile. “Speaking of Lupin—when’s the next time you’ll see him? I’m sorry I didn’t answer your last letter, but I do have a lot to go over and I’d much rather do it in person. Did he seem hesitant? Reluctant?”

“Yes, but I told him I trust you,” Darcy answers. “And he was all right with that. As long as I trust you, he trusts you.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Gemma chuckles. “I assumed he’d be a little nervous, and that’s why I want to meet with you first. It’s only natural, but I think he’ll feel better about it once—”

“Are you two done scheming over there?” Carla asks suddenly, and both Darcy and Gemma jump. Both Carla and Emily look slightly impatient, their arms crossed over their chests, waiting for their friends to rejoin the conversation. “There’s so much I want to tell you about Borneo—you wouldn’t believe half of what we did there. Elena knew where the bigger Wizarding communities are, seeing as she’s bounced around them for a little while now.”

“Oh—that reminds me,” Emily interrupts, earning herself an annoyed look from Carla, whose mouth is still half-open, prepared to continue. “Do you know a girl named Tonks? We work together, and she said she was friends with your sister.”

“Tonks?” Carla repeats, her annoyance suddenly vanished from her face. Instead, her face lights up, and Darcy feels a churning in her stomach, inching closer to Gemma. “Yeah—Nymphadora Tonks! She used to come round our house sometimes during the summers. She was great fun. She and Elena were always making mum and dad laugh. How is she? I’ll have to write Elena and tell her that you work with her!”

“She’s doing well,” Emily says. “Almost done with her Auror training. Another year, I think.”

“Does she still have pink hair?”

“Yeah,” Emily laughs. “Most days.”

“I was always partial to her purple hair,” Carla replies quietly, and Darcy narrows her eyes as she thinks she sees a faint blush creep up her face. “Not that she looks ugly with her pink hair, I just—I wish my hair was purple—”

“Is this Darcy Potter?”

Darcy recognizes Ludo’s voice without having to look at him. She wishes in that moment, despite hating herself for it, that she was Nymphadora Tonks instead, able to change her appearance at will. What a relief it would be to look incredibly plain—what a relief it would be for eyes to wash right over her, not even giving her a second look. But she can feel Ludo’s eyes on the back of her head now and her friends fall silent as Darcy turns on her heels and gives Ludo Bagman a charming smile, feeling foolish and embarrassed with her friends watching on. Darcy falters at the sight of him wearing his old Quidditch robes, which seem to hang off his shoulders as if he was once much bigger and stockier.

“I’ve just met your brother,” Ludo smiles, and Darcy opens her mouth to speak, but he continues without letting her get a word in. “We didn’t necessarily speak much—not like you and I, Darcy! I’ve been dying to ask—what do you think of it all?”

Darcy smiles at him wider, glad he’s asked her a question to which she can reply honestly. “It’s amazing,” she gushes, looking around them at all of the campsites. “I’ve never been to something like this.”

“Well, the best part is yet to come! Would you like to possibly place a wager on the game, Darcy? You strike me as a Bulgarian supporter—fan of Viktor Krum’s, are you?”

She gives him a blank look, and Gemma leans in, whispering in Darcy’s ear, “Bulgarian Seeker. Very handsome, very good.”

“Oh—well, I don’t really know who I’ll be supporting,” Darcy admits sheepishly, glancing at Gemma, who seems to be fingering her money bag, tucked away in her sweater pocket. She gives desperately at Gemma for a hint. Gemma smiles at her, and Ludo’s eyes land on Gemma for a brief moment.

“Friends of yours, Darcy? Please—introduce us! I would hate to be rude to friends of Darcy Potter’s!”

Glad to get off the subject of the match, Darcy starts with Gemma, who’s nearest. “Everyone, this is Ludo Bagman. He’s the Head of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry,” she says, and Ludo nods eagerly. “Mr. Bagman, this is Gemma—she’s been working at St Mungo’s since June—and Emily—she was at the Ministry with me the other day—and this is Carla. She’s going back to Hogwarts for her seventh year this September.”

Ludo gives Darcy a very knowing and excited look, and Darcy knows he’s thinking of the Triwizard Tournament. “Glad to meet you all,” he tells them. “Now Darcy, I must be off, but come and find me after the match and we can talk more, yes?”

“Mr. Bagman,” Darcy starts before Ludo can walk away. He turns around, looking very pleased with himself. “Could you point us in the direction of Harry and the Weasleys?”

Winking at her, Ludo shows her the general direction of her brother and his friends, and Darcy leads her own friends towards the area after receiving a chaste kiss to her knuckles from Ludo himself. Carla walks at Darcy’s side while Emily and Gemma walk behind them.

“Since when are you on knuckle-kissing terms with Ludo Bagman?” Carla asks, perplexed. “Not that I’m jealous…”

“It’s a long story,” Darcy sighs, laughing nervously. “Mr. Weasley brought me to the Ministry a little while ago and I met him there… I’ll tell you everything once we’re alone again, yeah?”

“Plenty of time to update me come September,” Carla says with a grin. “You really stayed with Lupin this summer?”

“Yeah, for a week,” Darcy answers bashfully. She sneaks a glance at Emily and Gemma, deep in a serious conversation. “He didn’t even kiss me until I’d been there a few days. It was…” Darcy sighs happily at the memory of Lupin kissing her deeply in the pouring rain, kissing up and down her body, the scratch of beard against her thighs—

“Hey, Darcy!”

Darcy clears her throat, looking sideways at Carla as a lanky red-headed boy runs up to her, followed by Harry and Hermione. “Hi, Ron,” Darcy says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders with one arm, and draping the other around Harry’s. “You guys get here okay?”

“Took a Portkey,” Ron explains.

“How was it?” Darcy asks both of them. “I’ve never used one.”

“Extremely suffocating, confusing, and it made me really dizzy,” Harry answers for Ron, and the three of them laugh.

“Thought you’d seen the last of me, did you, Hermione?” Gemma teases, giving Hermione a toothy grin. Hermione gives a small shrug, looking slightly abashed. “Did Darcy tell you what I’m going to be researching this year?”

Fred and George, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere, are talking quietly with Emily and Carla, their heads bowed together. The corner of Emily’s lips turn upwards, and Carla listens with her eyebrows furrowed. Harry opens his mouth to speak to Darcy, but Hermione swats her arm, distracting Darcy completely.

“You volunteered Professor Lupin to be an experiment?” Hermione snaps and Gemma howls with laughter. “I would have thought you, of all people, would know how werewolves are—”

“I didn’t volunteer him!” Darcy retorts, giving Gemma a withering stare that has no effect on her. “Gemma offered and he accepted—Gemma, what are you saying to Hermione? You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“He’s not an animal to be tested on!” Hermione hisses.

Darcy can’t help but to smile at Hermione. “You don’t have to tell me that, Hermione,” she says kindly. “I think I know very well that he’s not an animal.” Darcy and Gemma meet eyes for a split second, and Gemma seems to be bursting to say something, her eyebrows raised, teeth bared in a wicked smile, but Darcy shakes her head. “I know what you’re going to say, and don’t say it.”

Gemma keeps quiet, but continues to beam at Darcy knowingly. Harry, Hermione, and Ron all exchange looks and scrunch their noses. Ron shakes his head. “Ew.”

“Shut up, Ron.” Darcy flushes a deep red. “Is your dad around?”

“In the tent,” Ron says, throwing his thumb over his shoulder at it. “Hurry up. We want to get some souvenirs.”

Darcy enters the Weasley’s larger tent, grinning around at the inside. This tent is just like Mrs. Duncan’s—bigger on the inside, with a small kitchen, bathroom, and plenty of sleeping space for the boys. Their rucksacks have been thrown unceremoniously onto the bunkbeds, and there are a few empty or half-empty cups littering the small tables around the tent. Mr. Weasley is talking with two other red-headed boys in the kitchen area—two red-headed boys that she doesn’t recognize. At the sight of Darcy approached, they break off their conversation, and Mr. Weasley pulls her into a tight hug.

“Darcy, these are my eldest sons,” Mr. Weasley says, releasing Darcy and placing either of his hands on his sons’ shoulders. “This is Bill—my oldest.”

Bill reaches out for Darcy’s hand and they shake. His grip is firm, and Darcy looks him over, admiring his individuality, especially among a large family of boys. Bill’s hair is just as red as the rest of his siblings, but longer (Darcy wonders how he gets away with that around Mrs. Weasley), and it’s tied back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. Dangling from one of his ears is an earring that looks suspiciously like a fang. Darcy briefly remembers seeing him around Hogwarts, but as he’d been much older, they hadn’t been friends. However, Darcy doesn’t recall him having long hair or a fang earring while a student at Hogwarts. “Nice to meet you—officially, I suppose,” Bill says politely. “Dad said you’d be here.”

Mr. Weasley continues when Bill and Darcy let go of each other’s hands. “And Darcy, this is Charlie. You probably saw each other around school more often.”

Darcy and Charlie smile at each other and shake hands without saying much. She does remember seeing him around Hogwarts when she was younger, but as she hadn’t been introduced to the Weasleys, they hadn’t really had a relationship between them. His hands are calloused and burned—his arms scarred and freckled. While she’s never actually talked to Charlie, nor have they really corresponded directly, Darcy remembers back to her fifth year, when Charlie had helped them make arrangements to get Hagrid’s baby dragon away from Hogwarts. “Pleasure to formally meet you at last, Darcy,” Charlie says after a moment’s silence. “You look much more grown up than the last time I saw you.”

“Make the trip all right?” Mr. Weasley asks, turning his back to her and tapping a kettle with his wand until it begins to screech. “You didn’t take a Portkey, did you?”

“No,” Darcy answers. “We Apparated with Emily’s mum and her friend. Mr. Weasley—could I talk to you? In private?”

“Sure,” Mr. Weasley says, frowning. “Is everything all right?”

Darcy nods and Bill and Charlie take their leave quickly, leaving she and Mr. Weasley quite alone in the tent. She hesitates for a moment, looking towards the entrance. Everything has been going so well—surely something would have happened already? But what if it’s yet to come? “Mr. Weasley, if I tell you this, I need you to promise that—”

“Darcy, are you ready?”

She sighs and closes her eyes for a moment before turning around. Harry’s head is sticking through the tent’s entrance flaps, and judging by the look on his face, Harry knows exactly what Darcy’s up to. “Yes, I’m coming.”

As Darcy turns away, Mr. Weasley stops her, looking utterly confused. “Wait—! What did you want to tell me?”

Darcy looks from Harry to Mr. Weasley, clearing her throat as Harry narrows his eyes at her, his body following his head into the tent. “I just wanted to tell you that—” She sighs heavily again. “I saw Ludo Bagman.”

“Did he weasel money out of you, as well?” Mr. Weasley asks exasperatedly. “He already got Fred and George to hand over their entire savings to bet on the match.”

“No, I—I didn’t bet anything.”

“Good girl.”

As soon as Darcy reaches Harry’s side and they exit the tent together, he hisses, “What were you going to tell Mr. Weasley for?”

“Because someone needs to know!” Darcy hisses right back. “If something happens tonight and people are hurt—”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Harry asserts, with a confidence that surprises Darcy. “We don’t even know if Voldemort is planning something—you just heard me say the word ‘Quidditch’ and your brain started turning. I can almost hear it now.”

“Harry, maybe it’s nothing, but don’t you think—”

“I think you’re overthinking—not like it’s the first time—”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you—”

“Years I’ve been hearing you two bicker, and you know what?” Gemma’s voice shuts both Harry and Darcy up immediately. Their friends are all standing together, watching them carefully. “It makes me extremely glad that mum and dad didn’t pop out another little shit like me.”


	9. Chapter 9

“What is this? How am I supposed to get drunk if I don’t understand the game?”

“Not understanding the game will likely get you drunker.”

“You don’t have to play!”

Gemma turns to Darcy, a blank expression on her face. “You know if I don’t play, I’ll never hear the end of it,” she whispers, giving Carla a pleasant smile. Gemma raised her voice, settling into a chair, and Darcy mimics her, moving her chair closer to Gemma. “Darcy and I will watch the first few rounds.”

Emily shrugs as Carla empties a small bag full of Gobstones on the ground. She sets them up on a blanket, sitting cross-legged across from Emily, clutching a cup in her hand full of amber liquor. Emily drinks from a bottle of wine. “And here I thought we’d be sober for this,” Emily cackles, raising her eyebrows in approval at Gemma.

Gemma smiles. “You thought I’d show up empty handed?” she jokes. “Do you even know me at all?”

“Come on,” Ron hisses in Darcy’s ear, his eyes fixed on Darcy’s cup full of firewhiskey. “Let me just have one sip—dad’s not here!”

“Don’t do it, Darcy,” George laughs.

“Unless you’re sharing with everyone,” Fred adds quickly, giving Darcy a sly smile.

“Your dad’s already given me the disappointed father speech once this summer,” Darcy tells Ron, pushing him lightly away from her. She adjusts the scarlet hat on her head and chuckles. “I’m not keen to receive another one for giving his underage son firewhiskey. Now go sit with Harry and Hermione—I have important gossip to discuss with Gemma.”

“God, I’ve been waiting weeks for this.” Gemma takes a deep swig of firewhiskey and puts her cup down in the grass beside her, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the front of her shirt and offering one to Darcy. Darcy takes it without question. “Probably been dying without a good stress cigarette, I’m sure?”

“If Petunia ever found out I smoked, I truly think she’d kill me.” Darcy lights her cigarette with a quick flick of her wand.

Hermione scrunches her nose, looking over at them. “Must you do that now?”

Gemma leans forward, looking past Darcy at Hermione and pointing a finger at her. “Of course we have to do this now,” Gemma says. “I can’t drink and not smoke a cigarette. I’m really in my element now. And no one is forcing you to sit by us, you know that, right?” When Hermione doesn’t answer, Gemma smiles wider. “Or—you think we’re so cool, you don’t want to leave because you want people to think you’re cool by association—”

“You’re not funny,” Hermione retorts. “And you’re not cool, either.”

“Ouch,” Gemma laughs. “Hermione, no offense, but I’m a lot cooler than you are.”

“If being cool means getting so drunk you can’t walk right and stinking of cigarettes, then I don’t think I want to be cool at all.”

This makes Gemma laugh harder. “Oh, Hermione—you know I love you, don’t you?”

Hermione rolls her eyes, her attention caught by Emily and Carla both shouting and drinking from their cup and bottle. Darcy and Gemma toast their friends and drink deeply again, chasing it with a long drag of their cigarettes. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione start their own conversation and Fred and George begin to chat up a couple of girls, Gemma leans into Darcy once more, elbowing her playfully.

Gemma holds her watch out in front of her. “We’ve got about an hour. Is that enough time?”

With a surge of affection for Gemma, Darcy plunges into the story of her week at Lupin’s starting from the very beginning. When Darcy admits she’d slept alone for the first few days because she didn’t want to have to ask Lupin to join her, Gemma snorts and laughs good-naturedly (“You guys are gross, you know that?”). Darcy doesn’t spare Gemma any details, even the ones that make her blush furiously, but Gemma listens carefully the whole time, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking from her cup. Unable to stop talking, Darcy then tells Gemma about her experience at the Ministry of Magic, and the conversation she and Mr. Weasley had had. When Darcy finishes, it’s like a weight off her chest, and she sighs contently, her head buzzing with drink.

Darcy and Gemma are quiet for a few minutes, watching Emily and Carla grow drunker and drunker with each round of Gobstones they play. Harry and Hermione watch Ron’s miniature figure of Viktor Krum walk back and forth on his palm; Fred and George have disappeared, along with the girls they’d been talking to.

“I’m afraid to tell Sirius,” Darcy whispers, glancing around at her friends once more. “I don’t think he’s going to be happy.”

“Why?”

“For all the same reasons Mr. Weasley wasn’t happy and then some.”

“Darcy, Sirius has been in Azkaban for the better part of your life,” Gemma says very seriously. “No offense, but I don’t really think that what he has to say about you and Lupin should matter much to you. After all the shit you’ve been through, you deserve this, and if he can’t see that—well, fuck him.”

“Don’t say that, Gemma. I love him,” Darcy says quickly. “I love Sirius. What he thinks matters very much to me.”

Gemma doesn’t seem to have much else to say about the subject, and it discourages Darcy. Gemma—who had been Darcy’s steady and reliable source of comfort the previous year—who had kept secrets and given her advice and listened to everything without asking too many questions. And within fifteen minutes, parents begin to arrive to collect their children.

Mr. Weasley comes first, decked in green to support Ireland along with his children and their friends—with Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Fred and George at his heels, he beckons to Harry, Ron, and Hermione; they bid everyone goodbye and head towards the lantern lit path that will take them to the stadium. Carla’s mother and father seem agitated at the fact that Carla and Gemma have been drinking, but escort them away with smiles, clearly trying not to ruin the exciting mood of the Quidditch Cup. When Emily’s mother and her friend finally find Emily and Darcy, Darcy realizes they aren’t the only ones who’ve been drinking, as Mrs. Duncan smells strongly of wine, and her friend’s eyes are bloodshot, a lopsided smile on her face as they follow the shuffling crowd between rows and rows of tents—small tents and large tents, tents with gardens out front and tents with weather vanes on top. Eventually, the crowd leads them to a path lit by dim lights in the evening gloom, and Darcy hears raucous singing and drunken laughing, and Darcy smiles, walking slightly unsteadily on her feet along with the sea of green and scarlet.

The stadium is larger than Darcy ever expected—her eyes light up, never having been to anything like this before. Emily’s mother leads them to four seats and Darcy sits on the end, Emily on her left. All around her, thousands and thousands of spectators file into their seats, talking excitedly, wearing their support for either Ireland or Bulgaria. Advertisements flicker on a large blackboard high above Darcy’s head, and she pulls out the pair of Omnioculars, searching the stands for signs of her friends.

She sees the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione in the Top Box talking with important looking wizards, including one Cornelius Fudge. At the sight of the Minister of Magic, Darcy’s stomach begins to churn, but she can’t take her eyes off him. All she can think about is his inability to listen to reason—to even consider for one moment that idea that Sirius is innocent, that he hadn’t done what all those witnesses had said he’d done. If Cornelius Fudge was a decent man, he’d have listened to Darcy and set Aurors to finding Peter Pettigrew instead of her godfather. Forcing herself to look anywhere else, Darcy moves her Omnioculars a little away too watch Ludo Bagman, looking cheerful and excited as ever, and Darcy watches Ludo put his wand to his throat, not expecting to hear his voice booming throughout the stadium.

“Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

The spectators roar their approval and excitement, clapping and whistling and stamping their feet. Mrs. Duncan and her friend cheer loudly and Emily wolf-whistles, waving her Irish flag in the air and peering through her own Omnioculars.

The match is already full of surprises and the game hasn’t even started. Ludo Bagman announces the Bulgarian mascots and Darcy looks at them curiously as they walk out—hundreds of young women, incredibly beautiful with long, silvery hair and skin that appears to sparkle beneath the lights. Even though Darcy knows better (she doesn’t need Emily to dig fingernails into her arm and hiss, “Veela!”), she can’t help but feel extremely self-conscious. Suddenly, Darcy flattens her hair and looks down at her knees, feeling clumsy and plain and gawky. But it seems that she isn’t the only one affected by these women, and when they start dancing, chaos seems to break out—men everywhere around Darcy are watching their dancing intently, some of them hanging over the railing that keep them from falling to their deaths, other standing on the seats with a hand held to their heart.

When the Veela finish their dance and begins to leave the field, Darcy is surprised at the amount of shouting, men calling them back, expressing their desire for the women to stay. But Darcy’s privately glad they’re gone, for her feelings of severe inadequacy (that so often pop up when she’s with Lupin) slowly begin to fade, pushed again to the back of her mind. And they disappear completely when the Irish mascots come out, distracting Darcy.

Darcy watches the sky as, what appears to be fireworks, light up the stands and draw the attention from everyone who’d been watching the Veela. Darcy grins up at the shamrock that appears against the dark sky and looks through her Omnioculars, zooming in as far as she’s able as something hits her hard on the top of her head. Lowering her Omnioculars, Darcy looks around to find golden coins raining down upon the spectators and, upon closer inspection, finds that the fireworks aren’t fireworks at all—but Leprechauns.

Ludo Bagman introduces the players for each team, and when he calls Viktor Krum’s name, the stands around her go wild. Apparently, Krum is a favorite player of Bulgarian supporters and Irish ones alike, and when Darcy looks into his face, she gets the impression that Krum doesn’t particularly enjoy it—or maybe he does, but his face just looks like that. He’s young, maybe her own age, with large eyebrows lacking any arch, making him look angry and sullen, and his curved nose reminds Darcy of a beak.

After the referee flies out onto the pitch, the game begins, and Darcy has a hard time keeping up. Seven years of watching Quidditch at Hogwarts, three years of watching Harry play, and this is nothing like she’s ever seen before. Despite being draped in scarlet, Darcy cheers along with Emily, Mrs. Duncan, and Mrs. Duncan’s friend, Faye, when the Irish Chaser scores the first points of the match, and Emily points to the Leprechauns, who celebrate with the team.

The match is brutal, fast-paced, and Ludo can barely keep up with the Quaffle most times. His enthusiastic nature does nothing but engage Darcy, and while she hadn’t thought she’d find herself fond of Ludo, it’s hard not to be. Bulgaria scores eventually, and the Veela perform their dance again to the audiences’ pleasure, and the Bludgers zoom around the pitch, hit by Beater after Beater towards any player near the Quaffle.

Viktor Krum, Darcy has to admit, is an excellent flyer. She’s always known that Harry has real talent on a broomstick, but Krum is something else, and part of her wishes she was in the Top Box with him, exclaiming and chattering about the players clean techniques and flying styles. A little while into the match, the Irish Seeker follows Krum in a dive, crashing into the ground as Krum soars away, unhurt. It’s a moment before the mediwizards tend to the injured Seeker and the game begins again.

Players are injured, penalties are awarded, even the Veelas reveal their true selves halfway through the game, jeering at the Leprechauns with bird-like faces, angry and shrieking. Ireland scores goal after goal after goal, flying through the air with a kind of triumph as they Snitch continues to elude both Seekers. Darcy feels her voice grow hoarse as she shouts incoherently with the rest of the crowd, and Emily’s barely audible over the shouts of her mother and friend.

Watching Krum through her Omnioculars, Darcy sees him dive again, blood spilling from a broken nose down his robes and through the air, catching the attention of the Irish Seeker. For a moment, Darcy expects Krum to lead the other Seeker into the ground again, hopefully for a few minutes to search for the Snitch without interruption, but—

“Ireland wins!” Ludo’s voice booms. “Krum’s caught the Snitch, but Ireland wins! 170 to 160!”

Darcy and Emily turn to each other, and she can feel her heart racing with adrenaline beneath her chest, threatening to burst right out of her. As both teams fly towards the Top Box, Emily croaks, “How about that?”

“That was amazing! Why don’t we go to more Quidditch games?”

“Don’t let mum hear you say that,” Emily laughs, nodding at her mother, who looks to be almost teary-eyed as she applauds the Ireland team. Emily grins mischievously. “I’m sure Oliver Wood could get you free tickets whenever you wanted.”

“I’m sure there’s a price.” They both laugh.

* * *

Despite the late hour, many people are still celebrating, including Darcy, Emily, Carla, and Gemma, who continue to drink, reliving the Quidditch match. Sitting together in an empty camping spot, surrounded by Irish supporters who set off fireworks and sing loudly and drunkenly, setting the mood.

“How about that Viktor Krum?” Gemma asks, looking around at all of her friends with a raised eyebrow, as if looking for an appraisal. “Handsome? Do you think that I could hook a famous Quidditch player?”

“He looks angry,” Carla notes with a shrug.

“Probably because his team lost,” Emily adds.

“Yeah, but he was the one who caught the Snitch,” Darcy says. “If I were Krum, I’d probably at least give a smile.”

“So what’s the consensus?” Gemma asks again. “Am I going for it?”

“You and every other girl here,” Emily snorts. “Good luck fighting your way through all of them.”

“You’re trying to tell me that Viktor Krum wouldn’t pick me out of a crowd of—”

There’s a loud _BANG!_ and the four of them quiet for a moment. Darcy’s ears perk up as she looks around her, looking for a sign of a disturbance, of something wrong, and her heart starts to hammer again and she can feel sweat forming on her face—cold sweat. “What was that?” she snaps, hoping for a reassuring answer.

“It’s probably just fireworks,” Carla replies with a smile. “What are you so paranoid for?”

“Do you even know Darcy?” Emily jokes, though Darcy can tell that her heart isn’t really in it. She checks her watch, her leg suddenly bouncing up and down. Darcy stares at Emily, hoping she’ll look up and understand Darcy’s fervent desire to leave and find Harry. When Emily meets her eyes, she clears her throat. “It’s getting late. Darcy, mum will probably be waiting for us.”

“You’re leaving now?” Gemma frowns, getting to her feet as Darcy and Emily reach out for each other’s hands. “Party’s just started! C’mon, at least help us finish this bottle—”

But before anyone can give an answer, the tent right beside their empty spot erupts into flames and the small explosion that follows knocks all four of them backwards. Darcy hits the ground hard, Emily falling on her legs. They scramble to their feet, pulling Carla and Gemma up by their hands. By the light of the raging fire, Darcy sees the panic in her friends’ faces, and as adrenaline courses through her veins, Darcy pushes Emily behind her as another tent goes up in flames.

“What’s happening?” Carla shrieks, shielding her eyes, looking Darcy directly in the eyes. “What’s going on?”

Darcy looks around as if searching for an answer right in front of her, but all she can hear is screaming—not singing. The shouts and cries of wizards and witches, the wailing of small children, names being called out, the sound of heavy footsteps all around her as people run back and forth, searching for family members and friends. It’s hard to see through the dark, but Darcy thinks she can see other people—hooded, their faces hidden, and suspended high above them are four people, clearly in pain and afraid, sobbing as the hooded figures make their bodies contort and writhe in the air. Darcy shakes her head, her eyes landing upon Gemma, whose face is very white.

Gemma grabs onto Carla’s hand, turning to Darcy. Darcy swallows loudly, being shuffled around by the fleeing crowd as the hooded figures draw nearer. Gemma’s grave expression frightens Darcy—it’s almost as if the incident has sobered Gemma up completely. “Death Eaters,” Gemma whispers. She looks to Emily and gives a slight nod before turning back to Darcy. “You have to get out of here—we’ll go check on Carla’s parents—”

 _Death Eaters_. So this is what Voldemort had planned—he wasn’t going to show his face, he was going to have his servants do it for him. When Darcy glances at the floating figures, her stomach lurches, recognizing them as the Muggles who had greeted them when they arrived at the campsite. Darcy wonders very briefly if Gemma’s parents are among the crowd—if Gemma had any idea that something was being planned, but from her pale face and the fear in her eyes, Darcy doesn’t think Gemma knew anything.

Without a plan, without any other instructions, Gemma and Carla run one way, away from the Death Eaters now approaching closer. Emily makes to run the opposite way, towards the campsite, and Darcy makes to run into the Death Eaters. Still clutching onto each other’s hands, they both stumble, facing each other.

“Where are you going?” Emily screams as a witch nearly runs her over attempting to run away. “Mum’s tent is this way!”

“I have to find Harry!”

“You heard Gemma—you have to get out of here—if they see you and realize who you are, they will kill you!” Emily starts to panic and she takes a step back. “I have to get mum—please, Darcy, come with me and we’ll get out of here—”

“I’m not leaving without Harry!”

Darcy and Emily hesitate, giving each other pleading looks, and at the same time, they both turn away from each other, pelting off in opposite directions, wands at the ready. The Death Eaters are closing in now and Darcy is sure they’ve spotted her, sure that some of them recognize her—and sure enough, a jet of white light is shot towards her. Darcy tries to side step it, but it grazes her thigh, cutting through her jeans and breaking skin. It stings, but the pain goes away just as quickly as it had come on, despite blood soaking the area.

Between the stampeding crowd, the Death Eaters, and Ministry workers and volunteers attempting to fight off the Death Eaters, Darcy can hardly tell up from down. Jets of red, green, blue, and white fly in every direction, narrowly missing her at some times, and several times she’s knocked to the ground when a fleeing wizard or witch barrels into her. She tries to find the area where the Weasleys had pitched their tents, but Darcy doesn’t know where she is, and the only sound now is the pounding of her pulse in her ears drowning out the screams and cries and jeers. How is she supposed to find Harry like this? She can’t find a sign of red hair—the Weasleys are always easy to pick out of a crowd—and she can’t find a sign of Harry or Hermione. Even her own friends are lost to her; Gemma and Carla are likely gone, Disapparated as soon as they’d returned to Carla’s parents—and where is Emily? Where was it that they’d put the tent? Hundreds of tents are on fire and any one of those could be the one she seeks, but thick black smoke keeps her from spotting any small details that could alert her to the owner.

Darcy continues to push her way through the thinning crowd, coughing and hacking as the smoke burns her lungs and her chest. “Harry!” she rasps, pushing a wide wizard out of her way. “Harry!”

Between the excitement of the match and lots of drink, Darcy hadn’t even been thinking about the possibility of an attack on the World Cup. Everything had seemed fine—security was everywhere, scouring the campground for signs of inappropriate magic, and now—how many people are dead? How many more injured? How many more frightened, trying to console their children? And what of the Muggles being raised high in the sky by these Death Eaters? Darcy continues to stagger through the burning tents, searching for a sign of someone she knows, hoping that her friends are all right, hoping they’re safe—alive. How many people could she have saved by telling someone about her concerns? What could they have done? Darcy hadn’t been expecting this—not an assault on the campground by cowards hidden behind masks—could any of this had been prevented?

Through the thick smoke, high above Darcy in the night sky, something floods the campground with light, and she looks up, momentarily frozen to the spot. She can’t remember ever seeing anything like it—green in color, the shape looks to be a giant skull, horrible and terrifying, and when it opens its mouth, the tongue is a snake and Darcy recoils. She doesn’t know why—she can’t explain it—but the sight of the skull in the sky inspires such fear in her heart, and Darcy continues moving, calling out Harry’s name, stopping again when she notices something off.

The appearance of this skull in the sky seems to have triggered something among the Death Eaters. They begin to scatter and Disapparate as the Ministry workers close in on them with their wands brandished. Groups of Death Eaters disappear together, pointing at the sky, forgetting about destroying the campsites all around them. With most of the fearful witches and wizards hiding in the woods or completely gone, the Death Eaters missing, and Ministry workers putting out the fires, Darcy looks around her again, able to see by the light of the skull in the sky.

The sight of the campsite takes Darcy’s breath away; her knees buckle and she falls to the ground, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene of utter destruction. Her chest heaves at the sight of bodies lying around her—dead or just Stunned, she can’t be sure. The smoldering remains of tents are all that’s left in this area, the grass scorched and no longer green, the sky looking cloudy with all the billowing smoke. Darcy looks to the tree line off to the side, wondering if it’s possible Harry could be hiding in there—or had he wandered off to look for her? Would he have done that? Would Harry have needed to know his sister was all right?

“Darcy? Darcy—oh, my—up you get, here now…”

A heavy hand clamps around Darcy’s upper arm and pulls her to her feet. She turns to find Ludo Bagman, his normally smiling face looking very white and very scared. His eyes dart from burned tent to burned tent before gripping her arm tighter and looking right into her eyes. Darcy watches as he examines her face, looking her quickly up and down.

“Are you all right? What are you doing out here?” he asks shrilly, as if she should know better. “Come—come, Darcy—let’s get you away from here…where are your friends, Darcy?”

“I—I don’t know,” Darcy replies, keeping her eyes fixed on Ludo’s face, not wanting to see the scene of devastation around her. Ludo grips her arm tighter and looks around. “I was looking for Harry—Emily and I got separated—”

“You there!” Ludo calls out, making Darcy jump. “Are you a Weasley? You look like a Weasley!”

“Charlie—!” Relief washes over Darcy at the sight of his face, and Darcy reaches out for him. There’s a large tear in his shirt, a few small cuts on his arms, but he seems otherwise okay. “Charlie, where’s Harry? I couldn’t find him anywhere!”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Harry’s all right,” Charlie answers, glancing down at her bleeding leg. “Dad brought all of them to a safe place—the forest, I think, just over there—are you all right? You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Darcy replies, still not feeling any pain. She looks towards the forest that Charlie had mentioned. “Where’s your tent? I got all turned around and I couldn’t find—”

“This way,” Charlie says, nodding in acknowledgment to Ludo before they take their leave. They seem to have wandered some ways away from the Weasleys’ tents, but Charlie finds his way easily enough, his jaw clenched and gripping his wand very tightly. Darcy holds her arms around her as Charlie leads her into the untouched tent, and they both stop just inside upon realizing no one else is inside. “They’ll be back soon.”

“I have to find Emily—she went to go find her mum and I went to find Harry and—” Darcy stops, looking up into Charlie’s face and feeling about to explode. Her thigh begins to throb. “Why did they run? Why did they just leave like that?”

“I think it was the Dark Mark,” Charlie sighs, pulling out chair for Darcy at the small table. She sits and be rummages around quickly in the cabinets, pulling out a yellowing cloth. “Here—I’m no good at healing spells.”

Darcy presses the cloth to her thigh and it feels slightly better with pressure applied to it. When Charlie sits down across the table from her, she continues. “The Dark Mark? Is that what that skull was?”

“Yes. The Dark Mark is You-Know-Who’s sign of sorts,” Charlie explains. “Dad said that Death Eaters would put up the Dark Mark whenever they killed.”

They look at each other for a moment, and are soon distracted by people stumbling through the tent flaps. Darcy and Charlie get to their feet, and for a second she forgets about the pain in her thigh. Bill and Percy stop at the sight of them—Percy clutches a bleeding nose and Bill’s arm gushes blood onto the canvas floor. Immediately, Darcy and Charlie search for something to staunch the bleeding, and Charlie suggests a bed sheet after finding nothing large enough.

It’s only a few minutes later when Fred, George, and Ginny enter the tent, looking shaken. Darcy strokes Ginny’s hair as she settles in the chair beside her, but she addresses Fred and George. “Where are the others?”

“We got separated,” George answers, falling into another chair next to Bill. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

For nearly fifteen minutes, they all sit in silence. Darcy wants to talk more about what happened, wants to keep her brain from coming up with disgusting thoughts, but it doesn’t seem right to talk about these things in front of Ginny, who already seems very frightened. And then, Mr. Weasley bursts into the tent and everyone stands. Behind him, Harry, Hermione, and Ron enter—Darcy runs at them, meaning to hug Harry, but scooping the rest of them into her arms, as well.

“Are you all right?” Darcy asks Harry, touching his face and kissing the top of his sweaty head several times. “I was so worried—”

“I’m okay,” Harry says breathlessly. “You?”

Darcy nods, but Harry looks nervously at her thigh. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.” Clutching his shoulders, Darcy takes a look around the tent, her heart racing again. “I have to get back to Emily—I just had to make sure you were all right.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Harry whispers.

Darcy nods again, exiting the tent and stepping out into the cool, smoky air. Knowing exactly where she is now, it’s easy to find her way back to Mrs. Duncan’s tent. But Darcy quickens her pace about halfway back—the tents here are all still smoking, torn and burned canvas blowing in the slight breeze, most of the campsites deserted. _No, no, no—not Emily, not Emily._

And Darcy finds the tent easy enough. What once was a beautiful spot is now ugly and dry—Mrs. Duncan’s tent is completely destroyed, nothing but a pile of ashes, and Darcy sees a flash of blonde hair a little off in the distance—the same blonde as Emily’s hair. Darcy sprints to the treeline, panting as she reaches Emily, who is kneeling on the ground before something.

“Are you—?” But Darcy’s question dies in her throat.

Emily doesn’t even look at her, doesn’t turn around to see who it is that has appeared at her shoulder. Darcy kneels down beside Emily and looks into the colorless face of Mrs. Duncan—as cold and lifeless as Lily Potter’s is in Darcy’s nightmares.


	10. Chapter 10

_My fault. My fault. My fault._

“Emily—”

“Don’t touch me.”

_My fault. My fault. My fault._

“Darcy? Emily—Merlin’s—they’re over here! We need help!”

_My fault. My fault. My fault._

Arms wrap around her—skinny arms, shaking arms—pulling her away from Emily and her mother. Darcy closes her eyes, her cheek against a chest, listening to a rapidly beating heart, matching the pace of her own.

_All my fault._

Harry’s hand touches her face, holding her to him. The ground is starting to hurt her knees. Her thigh throbs with every shaky breath she takes. Voices are getting closer—people are noticing there’s something wrong.

_All my fault._

“Darcy, sweetheart, come here,” Mr. Weasley whispers, and his hand takes her’s, gently prising her from Harry’s chest. Harry’s arms release her somewhat reluctantly, but Darcy is afraid to open her eyes, afraid to see what her cowardice has done to Emily’s mother, afraid to see what her cowardice has done to her best friend. “Come here, Darcy—I’m going to take you and Emily home, all right?”

“And what about my mother?” Emily snaps suddenly, her voice hoarse and desperate, pleading. “I’m just supposed to leave her here?”

“Your mother will be taken care of,” Mr. Weasley says soothingly, but when he wraps his arm around Darcy, she can feel him trembling. “Don’t worry, Emily.”

Mr. Weasley pulls Darcy tighter to him, and she nuzzles into his chest, tears spilling from her eyes and down her cheeks, staining his jacket. Emily’s light and hesitant footsteps approach and Darcy hears her sniffling. When Emily’s clammy hand closes around Darcy’s wrist, Darcy finds the strength to open her eyes. Slowly, very slowly, as Mr. Weasley issues instructions to his eldest sons in regards to the other children, Darcy lifts her head from Mr. Weasley’s chest. Emily is looking right at her, eyes swollen and puffy, cheeks stained with tears, but her gaze isn’t an accusing one—it’s sad, pathetic, apologetic—and Emily quickly looks away, holding onto Mr. Weasley’s arm.

“I don’t live far from the Ministry’s visitor entrance,” Emily tells him in a soft voice. “I can get us home from there.”

Darcy looks past her at the legs that belong to Emily’s mother—long and pale, just like Emily’s. Her torso and head are hidden behind a couple of Ministry workers, talking quietly amongst themselves. Guilt overwhelms her and Darcy sobs, Mr. Weasley’s arm tighter around her than she’s ever been held. She takes one last look at her brother before the three of them turn on the spot and the campsite around them dissolved into a rush of colors, disappearing altogether, and within seconds, Darcy’s feet hit the hard ground of an empty, dark alleyway.

Emily leads them home.

* * *

 Seated at the top of the carpeted stairs, Darcy listens to Mr. Weasley speaking with Mr. Duncan in the kitchen, her packed trunk at her side and Max’s empty cage on her other side. Max is wrapped in her arms, not writhing in her grip, rubbing his face all over Darcy’s and hooting quietly every so often. She hears Mr. Duncan break down into great, heaving sobs, his grief becoming Darcy’s grief. Darcy’s tears fall into Max’s feathers as she cuddles him, allowing him to nip at the tips of her fingers as she rubs underneath his beak.

After several minutes of hearing Mr. Duncan crying, refusing to believe his wife is dead, unable to comprehend what kind of people would kill his beautiful wife—his Beth—his daughter’s mother. Darcy sits quite still, forcing herself to. Why hadn’t she told someone about Harry’s dream? Why hadn’t she told Mr. Weasley? Or let Emily tell Tonks? Why did it matter if Harry would be mad at her if it meant Emily’s mother had lived? Darcy buries her face in Max’s feathers, crying quietly. All she can picture is Mr. Duncan holding his daughter, trying to understand what exactly happened, thinking of Mrs. Duncan’s beautiful face—a face normally full of color and life and energy, now cold and white and devoid of any life.

After another fifteen minutes of nothing but Emily and her father crying, Darcy hears Mr. Weasley’s footsteps at the base of the stairs. She lifts her head from Max’s feathers and looks at him for a long time. Darcy doesn’t move, and Mr. Weasley takes a few steps closer to her. He looks exhausted, drained of everything he has, and he takes his glasses off to rub his eyes with his thumbs before replacing them.

“Come on, Darcy,” he whispers, his voice breaking. Mr. Weasley holds out a hand for her. “They’ll be all right.”

She wants to tell Mr. Weasley that it’s all her fault—that Emily’s mother is dead because of her—because she was too afraid of angering Harry, too afraid of compromising his privacy. She wants to tell Mr. Duncan—he and his wife who had brought her into their home, who had given her safe haven from the Dursleys, who had fed her and clothed her, taken her out to dinner and the theater and shopping—that it’s all her fault Mrs. Duncan is dead, that Emily will never have a mother again—her fault that Mrs. Duncan will never cook dinner again, that she’ll never come home to kiss her husband again. Darcy is all too familiar with the pain of missing a parent, all too familiar with the gaping hole in her heart, the aching in her chest. She would never wish that pain upon anyone, and to know that it’s her fault her best friend now has to live with that pain…

“Darcy, please,” Mr. Weasley begs, beckoning her to him. “I’m going to take you back—Molly will take care of you until we’re able to catch a Portkey back.”

Finally, Darcy coaxes Max back into his cage with little resistance on his part, and she gets to her feet. Mr. Weasley waves his wand at her trunk and it floats down the stairs towards him. Darcy carries Max’s cage in her sweaty and shaking hand, moving down the stairs. At the bottom, she chances a glance into the kitchen, where the sound of sobbing is still audible. Mr. Duncan has Emily enveloped in his arms, kissing the top of her head; Emily sobs into his chest and Mr. Duncan cries into Emily’s golden hair—the same golden hair that her mother had. Darcy stumbles backwards, unable to watch the scene any longer.

She follows Mr. Weasley outside and the cool night air hits her, chilling her bones. Darcy suddenly wishes there were warm arms wrapped around her, comforting her, soothing her. The prospect of having to face Mrs. Weasley’s coddling becomes too much, and as Mr. Weasley extends her hand to her again, Darcy reaches out to take it, but hesitates. She eyes her trunk sitting on the ground beside him, close enough for Darcy to grab hold of. She looks into Mr. Weasley’s eyes warily and kneels down, under the pretense of letting Max out. She goes to kiss his head, whispering to him (and feeling quite foolish while doing so) the address of where she’ll be going. Max flies away instantly, hooting loudly as he soars out into the night.

“Take my hand, Darcy. Come on, sweetheart.” But Darcy hesitates. Mr. Weasley senses trouble instantly and shakes his head. “Darcy, let’s go.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley,” she cries. “I’m sorry.”

“What—?”

Darcy holds tight to Max’s cage, grabs the handle of her trunk before Mr. Weasley can say another word and she turns on the spot, disappearing from the front of Emily’s house and leaving Mr. Weasley standing on the lawn, bewildered.

What feels like an eternity later, Darcy lands flat on her back in tall grass, crying out as a sharp pain shoots up her spine. She pushes her trunk off her and sits up, rubbing her eyes and looking around her. Directly in front of her, the half moon casting it in an eerie, white light, is a dark cottage. There’s no smoke coming from the chimney, and all the lights inside seem to be off. But at the sight of it, Darcy lets out a sob and, quite forgetting her luggage, staggers up the overgrown path to the front door. Through swollen eyes, she checks her watch, almost forgetting the unreasonable hour.

3:59.

Darcy isn’t sure if knocking loudly in the dead of night is a good idea when he isn’t expecting anyone, but she throws caution to the wind, slapping the door as hard as she can, calling out for him, crying, begging him to wake up. She slaps the door for three minutes until her palm begins to sting, and when she stops, there’s the clicking of a lock and the door is pulled open quickly.

Lupin is standing there, tousle-haired, eyes still puffy from sleep, his wand held out hesitantly in front of him. “Darcy,” he rasps incredulously, looking beyond her and examining the empty field. When he comes to the conclusion that she is, indeed alone, he looks at her again. “What are you doing here?” Darcy doesn’t answer, and Lupin lights the tip of his wand, taking a step back in order to get a good look at her.

She’s sure she looks a terrifying sight. Darcy had caught glimpses of her reflection in shop windows on the lonely and quiet walk to Emily’s house. Her face blackened by soot, hair tangled and a mess, her jeans and thigh covered with now dry blood, face tear-stained and more tears spilling from her eyes.

Her throat aching, Darcy manages to whisper, “Can I please come in?”

“Where are your things? Why didn’t you write to me? What’s happened?” Lupin takes her hands and pulls her gently into his home, turning on a few lamps and sitting her down on the sofa. He retrieves her trunk and empty cage, leaving them at the door to return to Darcy. “Why are you bleeding? Why are you here at four in the morning?”

The words come so easily to her, as they always have. Darcy has always been able to say anything to him, has always been able to tell him things she’d never tell anyone else. “Emily’s mum is dead,” Darcy says weakly as Lupin’s hands cup her face, tucking hair behind her ears. His eyes rove over her face, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “It’s my fault.”

“Why would you say that?” Lupin asks her gently. He lights a fire by magic in the oversized fireplace. “Why would you ever think that it’s your fault? What’s happened, Darcy?”

He fires his questions at her without hesitation, hardly taking breaths between them, but Darcy feels such as ease for the first time in hours that Darcy feels up to answering them. She has to tell someone or her own thoughts will drive her insane. So Darcy—with many tears and moments where she’s nearly incoherent, racked with sobs—tells Lupin about her suspicions of something happening at the Quidditch World Cup, of her stupid decision not to tell anyone, of how she’d chickened out of telling Mr. Weasley, how the Death Eaters had stormed the campsite and Emily crying over her mother’s dead body and Mr. Duncan’s heartbreaking sobs in the home that his wife would never return to. Lupin doesn’t say a word throughout this, only shushes her quietly when Darcy begins to get hysterical again.

“If I had told someone, I could have stopped it,” Darcy finishes. “If I hadn’t been such a stupid coward, they could have been ready for the Death Eaters and Emily’s mum would still be alive and she knows it’s my fault—”

“It’s not your fault,” Lupin says, shaking his head slightly. “You can’t blame yourself. It could have just been a dream—”

“I should have said something!”

“Darcy, how could they ever have been prepared for that? Even if you had told someone, I don’t think many people would have taken a tip you gave them based on a dream. Even if they had—going off what you’ve told me—how would they have known the Death Eaters were going to come?”

She doesn’t answer. Darcy stares into the crackling fire for a long time, her eyes heavy. “Don’t let me fall asleep tonight,” she breathes, eyes still fixed upon the flames. “Please.” When Darcy turns back to look at him, it’s only then that Darcy realizes he isn’t wearing a shirt, and her eyes sweep over him. She looks away quickly, disgusted with herself.

“You need to get some rest,” Lupin insists, trying to sound firm about it, but failing miserably. “I’ll take care of you, Darcy.”

Darcy smiles a sad smile. “I know you will.”

A heavy silence hangs over them for a few minutes. Darcy can feel Lupin watching her, waiting for her to say something, to do something. Finally, he says, “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

She’s alive, that’s the only thing she’s sure of. Darcy is alive, yet anything but all right. She feels like a part of her has died—someone she considered a mother figure is now dead—a casualty that Darcy could possibly have prevented. But Lupin’s words soothe the aching in her heart long enough for her to tear her gaze completely from the fire and wrap her arms around him. His arms snake around her waist, and Darcy cries into his shoulder.

Lupin presses his lips to her temple, placing a soft kiss on an area of skin still free of soot. “Does anyone know that you’re here?”

Almost certain that Mr. Weasley will likely deduce where she’s gone, it still leaves a small chance he won’t guess she’s gone to Lupin, but Darcy is absolutely certain Harry will. “Yes,” Darcy murmurs into his skin. “I’ll write tomorrow. Max is on his way here.”

“Would you like to get cleaned up?”

“Yes.”

He brings her trunk into the bedroom and Darcy enters the bathroom, deciding at the last moment to lock the door. She looks at herself for a long time in the mirror as the shower runs, heating up and making the mirror foggier and foggier. Slowly, she strips out of her clothes, slipping under the hot water and letting it wash everything off her—dirt and blood and sweat and soot, guilt and sadness and pain and remorse. She lets the water numb her, slightly lightheaded from the heat of it, from her pounding heart.

She’s so tired. Every time she closes her eyes—for a little bit longer every time, leaning against the bathroom wall—all Darcy can see are flashes of green lights, hear the thumping of a body hitting the floor, see her mother’s terrified face frozen in front of her, see Voldemort’s red, red eyes. Thankfully, knocking at the bathroom door startles her into a more alert state, and when Lupin asks, “Are you all right?”, Darcy decides it’s time to get out of the shower.

When Darcy exits the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping wet, Lupin is reading a book through tired eyes on the bed. As much as she doesn’t want to fall asleep, to relive her mother’s death over and over again, Darcy knows the comfort of waking beside him, being able to nuzzle into his chest after these dreams would be welcome. To just lay in bed and not be alone would be a blessing right now. Without removing her towel or drying her hair, Darcy crawls into bed beside him, closing her eyes automatically.

“Don’t fall asleep, love.”

“I’m just resting my eyes.”

“Don’t fall asleep.”

The words are soothing, reminding her of better days—of easier days. Darcy had been happy—happy in a way she hadn’t been in so long. Now, it’s hard to remember how she’d felt mere hours ago, her excitement during the match, the peaceful feeling she’d felt being with her friends again. It’s far easier to remember the fear, the suffering and aching, the chaos.

As soon as Lupin turns the lamp off and settles back down beside her, Darcy falls asleep.

Her dreams, as expected, are plagued by some of Darcy’s worst memories—her mother dying, the Chamber of Secrets, the image of Emily’s mother’s blank face. But every so often, Darcy feels a steady hand on her arm, or fingers brushing against her cheek, lips against her forehead.

When she wakes next, the sun is shining through the windows and Lupin isn’t in bed anymore. Darcy’s hair is still heavy and wet and the blankets are tangled around her, the towel barely covering any important parts of her body. The sound of knocking makes her jump, and Lupin sees that she’s awake. Dressed as if done in a hurry, he kneels at the side of the bed, coaxing her back down onto the pillow.

“Stay here,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

His voice is calm enough, but Darcy doesn’t fail to notice his wand clutched in his hand. Darcy does as she’s told, however, and Lupin leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him. She rolls over and checks the time—1:42. Darcy gets comfortable again, pulling the blanket up to her chin, listening carefully for any sounds of a fight or of a sign that whoever is at the door isn’t a Death Eater.

But when the visitor speaks, Darcy’s heart begins to hammer. She knows that voice—is incredibly familiar with that voice, and Darcy suddenly feels that if the owner of that voice were to see her like this, almost naked in Lupin’s bed, it will not end well for her.

“Is she here?” Mr. Weasley asks, his voice uncharacteristically curt. Darcy can tell he’s in the cottage now.

“She’s sleeping,” Lupin answers. “Leave her.”

Darcy keeps her eyes shut, willing herself to go back to sleep. The last thing she wants to do is talk to Mr. Weasley, either about last night or her current situation. _He’s not my father. I wasn’t obligated to go back to his home last night._ But even just the knowledge that Mr. Weasley had tracked her down to make sure she was all right makes Darcy feel a surge of affection for him.

“She told me what happened last night,” Lupin says again.

Mr. Weasley seems to have been waiting to say something to this effect because he answers quickly. “Damn Ministry is in disarray. Had the opportunity to slip away and wasn’t sure I’d have one again.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Gin, if you’re offering.”

They both chuckle. “No gin, but firewhiskey.”

“Don’t let Darcy know that.” They share another laugh. “All right, maybe just a small glass. Medicinal purposes, of course.” Darcy hears the clinking of glasses, the closing of the cupboard door. “Is she all right?”

“She will be.” Someone sets their glass on the table. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to know you stopped by.”

“Who else would have?”

Darcy feels tears well up in her eyes again as Lupin asks not unkindly, but as if he hadn’t heard correctly, “Excuse me?”

“Did she ever tell you about the first time we met?”

_No. Please don’t tell him._ Darcy prays for sleep to take her, for she doesn’t want to hear this conversation. She prays that Lupin will show Mr. Weasley out before he tells his story. But he doesn’t—Lupin doesn’t say a word, and allows Mr. Weasley to continue.

“My sons decided to stage a rescue mission with a flying car, brought them back to my home.” Mr. Weasley chuckles, but it falls flat, sounding very strained. “Sixteen years old, skinny and starved, afraid and exhausted—very much an adult next to her brother.” Tears drip down the bridge of her nose, falling on the pillow. “Polite—incredibly so. She could teach my children a lesson in manners. There was something graceful about her, something that made it hard to believe she was still so young.”

There’s another silence and Darcy hears another faint clinking and she imagines Lupin refilling their glasses.

“I thought someone was being murdered that night,” Mr. Weasley says, and Darcy has to listen hard to catch everything. “I heard screaming and I thought it was Ginny—she’d never screamed like that before. And when I got to her room and realized it was Darcy, I—” He pauses. “I’m sorry—I should be heading back—someone will notice I’m gone. Thank you for the drink.”

“Of course.”

There’s the shuffling of footsteps as Mr. Weasley makes his way to the door. “You’ll send her our way then? When she wakes up?”

“If she wants to go, I won't stop her,” Lupin says quickly.

“Harry is worried about her. Promised I’d let him know how she is.”

“You can tell Harry she’ll be fine. I’ll have her write him.” The front door opens and Lupin’s voice grows fainter. “She’s in good hands, Arthur. She’s safe here.”

The last thing she hears before Mr. Weasley departs over the threshold is him sigh loudly and mutter, “Not many places are for the two of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told ya I’ve been doing nothing but writing. And grieving over Anthony Bourdain (the pain of his death will be with me always tbh)


	11. Chapter 11

“How do I look?”

Lupin looks up, lowering the day’s edition of the _Daily Prophet_. The Dark Mark stares back at her from the front page, still the top headline even days after the Quidditch World Cup. He closes the paper, eyes sweeping up and down her body, giving her a weak smile. “You look beautiful.” Lupin throws the paper on the table and gets to his feet as Darcy slips her shoes on and decides where to hide her wand—eventually, she slips it in the waistband of her underwear, on the side where her handbag is able to hide the outline of the thin wand from view.

Darcy smiles at him, and she hopes he knows that it means the world to her that he’s here—that he’s allowed her into his home—that he can sit there and tell her she’s beautiful after she’s been crying for days. Lupin moves closer to her, running his fingers through her hair and letting his thumbs brush over her cheekbones. She closes her eyes and sighs, wanting to stay here—wanting to curl up beside him and sleep for years. “How will I be able to face her? How can I look Emily in the face knowing what I’ve done?” whispers Darcy.

“It’s not your fault, Darcy,” Lupin answers, kissing her cheek tenderly. The tip of his nose bumps against her own and Darcy leans in to kiss him, but Lupin pulls away from her. “I’ll have dinner ready for you when you come back.”

She flattens the front of her dress—plain and black and depressing, the neckline revealing half an inch of one of the scars on her shoulder. However, the dress does hide the gash in her leg, now mostly healed over and scabbing—an ugly reminder of the night of the World Cup. Darcy looks up at Lupin, the urge to stay with him at the cottage growing stronger—not that she’d ever wanted to go to the funeral at all, afraid of looking Emily and Mr. Duncan in the eyes. Yet Lupin hadn’t lied to her—Darcy trusts him with her life to care for her, and he does care for her in ways she didn’t know she needed caring for.

Darcy had stayed in bed for the first few days, not eating or showering, only getting out of bed to use the bathroom. During the hours spent awake, Darcy is tormented with guilt, and during the hours spent asleep, her nightmares suffocate her.

Lupin had never forced her to get out of bed, but instead let her alone while she slept, gave her sweet kisses throughout the day, held her at night, comforted her when she’d wake from a nightmare, drenched in sweat and crying for her mother. And finally, Lupin had convinced her to leave the bedroom with the prospect of her favorite foods, cooked just the way she likes them, and they had eaten a silent meal on the sofa, Darcy picking at her food. Darcy had lay with her head in his lap afterwards, and Lupin dragged his fingers through her hair while she dozed on and off, never wanting to leave his side. She’s privately glad that Lupin has not asked her to stay, because Darcy isn’t quite sure she’d be able to refuse him.

“I can’t,” Darcy croaks, her throat burning from days of crying, lack of use, and several long drinks of alcohol over the past week. “I can’t do this.”

“I know you can,” Lupin says, his fingers tugging gently at the neckline of her dress to completely cover her scars. “I’ll have dinner waiting for you tonight, and tomorrow you’ll be at Hogwarts, where you belong.”

Darcy lets him fumble with her dress for a moment, his fingers brushing her skin, leaving the area feeling hot. “Come with me,” she pleads, frowning. “To Hogwarts.”

“I can’t, Darcy, you know that,” he answers. His voice is low and sad, and Darcy feels her heart ache for him. Lupin touches her shoulders, looking her in the face before his hands fall to his sides. “Go on, love. You’ll be late.”

She nods slowly and adjusts her dress one last time, making her way towards the door, Lupin following her. As she takes a step over the threshold, Lupin grabs her hand and stops her, muttering, “Hey.”

Darcy squeezes his hand, looking over her shoulder at him. Lupin lets go of her hand. “I love you,” he whispers. “Do you know that?”

She forces herself to smile, wishing she didn’t look so insincere. Darcy touches his cheek, cleanly shaven and as smooth as it can be. Standing on her toes, Darcy gives him a lingering kiss. “I know.”

* * *

 Emily and Mr. Duncan greet the funeral goers, her arm wrapped around her father’s. Mr. Duncan’s face is gaunt, not as handsome as it usually is, and his hair is pushed lazily out of his face, a thin patch of scruff on his face. Even Emily doesn’t look as radiant as usual—still beautiful, always beautiful—but looking as if, along with her mother, something else has died within her. Emily looks hollow and empty, greeting family friends with a forced smile. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and her long-sleeved dress makes her look elegant and much, much older than eighteen.

 _Are we all still so young?_ Darcy asks herself. _When did we have time to have fun? When did we have time to be children? How did we all grow up so fast?_

The price of being friends with a Potter, a voice reminds her. She’d been telling her friends for years that associating with a Potter means trouble and, for the most part—thankfully—her friends had been lucky enough to avoid trouble. But now the world, for Emily, has likely stopped spinning. For eighteen years she’d lived a perfect life, had a perfect and beautiful mother, and now— _now she’ll know how it feels when I crave my mother’s presence._

Darcy’s stomach does a backflip. How could she think that? How could she ever be so cruel to think such things about her best friend?

“You came.”

Darcy turns around quickly to find Carla alone, a strange sight to her—Darcy has grown so used to seeing Carla and Gemma together, that it slightly worries her. Carla’s hair is braided tightly to keep her ringlets from sticking up everywhere, clad in a black blouse and pencil skirt. She takes Darcy’s hand and pulls her away from the crowd now gathering in the lobby, bringing her to a quieter spot.

“How are you? What happened after we separated? How are your mum and dad?” Darcy asks, letting go of Carla’s hand and touching her side to make sure her wand is still on her. “I’ve been thinking of you.”

“Mum and dad are fine,” Carla smiles reassuringly, but it fades quickly. “Gemma and I made it back to the tent, and we hid out in the forest until it all passed.”

“How’s Gemma?”

“Gemma’s been staying with us. She took a few days off work right after it happened and I thought she was going to drink herself to death.” Carla laughs softly, shaking her head and Darcy notices her eyes are wet with tears. “She’s been taking this really hard.”

Darcy frowns. She had hoped that Gemma might be here to offer words of comfort, or even just a cigarette. “Is she here?”

“Yes. Sulking, most likely,” Carla says quietly, taking Darcy’s hand again and leading her away from a group of solemn looking older men and women. “She was horrified after everything happened. She said she didn’t know about any of it—she’s afraid that—that it might have been her parents that killed Emily’s mother.” Carla exhales through her long nose and purses her lips. “I think she feels responsible. I’ve been telling her all week that she can’t blame herself—that we know who she really is, and she is not her parents. I know Emily would never blame her for this.”

Darcy wants to laugh out loud at this, but holds back. It’s a strange feeling, considering she hasn’t laughed once since arriving at Lupin’s. “Gemma isn’t responsible,” Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair and trying to fight back the tears that threaten to pour from her eyes again. “I am.”

Carla blinks in surprise. “What?” she asks. “How could you say that?”

Her voice barely louder than a whisper, Darcy tells Carla about Harry’s dream. Carla watches her with wide eyes the whole time, brow furrowed as she thinks hard, looking absolutely dumbfounded. Darcy doesn’t think she has anymore tears to cry, but they come—a single one at first, rolling down her cheek, and then more start falling until Darcy wipes at them angrily.

“That doesn’t make it your fault,” Carla says, rubbing Darcy’s arm and patting her cheek. “You’re so insistent upon blaming yourself for everything. Darcy, we all thought You-Know-Who was gone, that it was all over. How were any of us supposed to know we’d see his sign again?”

Darcy watches a few more people filter into the funeral home, able to pick out the Muggles from wizards and witches quite easily by their style of dress. “I ran away,” she admits. “Like a coward. But I couldn’t go back to the Weasleys’. I couldn’t look them in the eyes after everything that happened—I could barely look at Mr. Weasley.”

“Where did you go?” But Darcy is under the impression that Carla already knows the answer. When Darcy doesn’t say anything further, Carla looks away. “I don’t think you’re a coward. I think you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not feeling very brave at the moment. Just nauseous.” Darcy swallows hard. “I can’t do this, Carla, I can’t. I’m not as brave as you think I am.”

Carla’s fingers lace with Darcy’s and they both squeeze. “Just because you’re afraid doesn’t mean you can’t also be brave.” She pulls gently at Darcy’s hand and leads her to the back room, where the doors will take them to a beautiful garden. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

* * *

The weather is too perfect—too beautiful. The sun shines down on the crowd, all dressed in black, a slight breeze ruffling the flowers and leaves around them. At the front of all the chairs placed for guests is a handsome, brown, polished closed casket, a Muggle photograph of Mrs. Duncan and her family. The wooden chair that Darcy sits on is uncomfortable, and she looks straight ahead, Carla on her left and an empty chair on her right. Darcy closes her eyes, listening the buzz of conversation, wondering if her own parents were ever given a funeral.

 _Likely not,_ she thinks bitterly. Not with Peter Pettigrew in hiding and Sirius in Azkaban. Darcy can’t imagine Lupin would have been able to scrape money together for a funeral, and Darcy can’t imagine Petunia jumping at the opportunity to mourn her parents, especially in front of a crowd of their friends. When Darcy starts to cry again, Carla wraps her fingers around Darcy’s bicep and rests her cheek on her scarred shoulder. Darcy covers her face, craving her mother’s touch, her father’s laughter, her mother’s kisses, her father’s hugs. She wants Sirius’s arms to wrap around her, holding her to his chest, kissing the top of her head.

“Darcy,” Carla whispers in her ear. “Look.”

Darcy’s eyes snap open and she looks to where Carla is pointing. Even at a funeral, Gemma is dressed to impressed, but she looks different, just like Emily. In a floor-length, expensive looking black dress that hugs her slight figure, Gemma’s hair falls to her shoulders, almost the same color as Harry’s. If Gemma had looked tired before, it’s nothing to how she looks now, reminding Darcy more of Lupin than ever. The shadows under her eyes have grown more pronounced, and Darcy is in half a mind to ask Carla if Gemma has gotten any sleep at all the past week. Though Gemma holds herself well, she doesn’t carry herself with the dignity and grace she usually does, and Darcy’s eyes follow her all the way to the empty seat beside her. As soon as Gemma sits down, Darcy is overwhelmed with the smell of stale smoke and drink.

Darcy, Gemma, and Carla hold hands throughout the service, crying freely as Mr. Duncan, Emily, and other friends of Mrs. Duncan tell stories and read poetry and deliver heartfelt and touching eulogies. Emily reads a poem that Darcy’s heard before, and even through Emily’s desperate sobs and and sniffles, Darcy can’t remember the poem being so beautiful. Every so often, Emily glances over her paper at her friends towards the back, seemingly finding strength and courage at the sight of them.

After the service, Mr. Duncan and Emily help carry the casket back through the building, silent tears streaming down their cheeks.

As people begin to disperse, preparing to leave to follow the Duncans to the burial and, eventually, the wake, Gemma mumbles something about a cigarette and Carla wanders off to let them alone. Darcy and Gemma find a quiet spot down the alley beside the funeral home and each light up a cigarette.

Darcy’s hand trembles as she and Gemma smoke in silence. Gemma doesn’t speak until Darcy’s halfway done with her cigarette, ashing it a little exuberantly, unable to control her fingers. “Can I ask you something?” Gemma says.

Darcy takes a long pull off her cigarette. “Sure.”

“Did you—did you see any unmasked Death Eaters?”

“No,” Darcy answers honestly. “I didn’t see much of anything.” There’s a long pause and Gemma puts a hand to her face. For a brief moment, Darcy forgets her suffering and grief at the sight of Gemma looking so stricken. She can’t remember seeing Gemma look so distressed before. “Gemma, you don’t know that your parents were even there.”

Gemma looks up at Darcy again, sneering, her beautiful and clever face suddenly looking terrifying. “You don’t think my parents were there? You don’t think they weren’t laughing at those Muggles?” Gemma growls. “You don’t think my parents would pass up the opportunity to torture Muggles?”

Darcy puts her cigarette out, unsure of what to say. “You’re not like them.” And unable to stop herself, Darcy mutters, “At least you still have both your parents.”

This is, apparently, the wrong thing to have said, and Gemma’s face darkens. Darcy remembers discussing Gemma’s parents in the shade of a beech tree at Hogwarts, how calm she’d been, how accepting she had been of her parents. “You think I want parents like that?” Gemma snaps. “Your parents died fighting against the very things that my parents stand for. Your parents died bravely and honorably, like the damn Gryffindors they were. My mum and dad may love me, they may be willing to do anything for me, but how can I look at them the same when we’ve all just witnessed what being a Death Eater truly means? How can I look at them the same knowing that either one of them could have possibly killed Emily’s mother?” Gemma quickly lights another cigarette, puffing on it to calm herself down. “What do you think they would say if they knew I was here? At a funeral for a woman who married a Muggle? The funeral for a woman they may have played a part in murdering?”

Darcy stares at Gemma, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean… I only…”

“I know, Darcy,” Gemma sighs. “I know.”

She can’t bring herself to tell Gemma about Harry’s dream. Everything seems so hazy and confusing to Darcy now. The only thing she can really think to do is wrap Gemma in a tight hug, which Gemma returns, crying into Darcy’s shoulder.

* * *

“I’m so, so sorry for your loss, Mr. Duncan,” Darcy says as he pulls Darcy into a hug. She falls into his chest, allowing him to cry into her hair for a few seconds before pulling away. “I wish there was something I could do for you.”

“You’re a good girl, Darcy,” he murmurs. “Beth would have been glad you were here.” Mr. Duncan leads Darcy towards the stairs with a hand on her shoulder. “I think Emily’s in her room, if you’d like to see her.”

The moment she’s been dreading all day—all day she’d avoided Emily. Not really purposefully avoided her, of course, as Emily had been quite busy during the funeral and much of the wake. But Darcy feels the best thing to do is to do as Mr. Duncan asks, as it’s the least she can do for him. So Darcy climbs the stairs slowly, adjusting her dress again and attempting to cover up the scars on her shoulder.

Without knocking, Darcy enters Emily’s bedroom. She’s sitting on her bed, flipping through a thick stack of photographs in silence. Their eyes meet for a split second as Darcy closes the bedroom door behind her and shuffles forward a few steps. Darcy searches for words of comfort to say, and realizes just then how absolutely terrible she is at this. “The poem you read was beautiful,” she says. “It really suited your mum.”

“You’re the one who introduced me to it, remember? When Gemma’s grandmother passed, you recited it for us.”

“Oh,” Darcy says, brought up short. She sits at the foot of Emily’s bed. “Emily, I’m so sorry. I should have done more—”

“Stop,” Emily snaps. “Just—please, stop.” She puts the photographs down on her bed and rubs her temples. Emily’s eyes are still swollen from crying, her face lacking any color, her hair slightly stringy up close. Darcy doesn’t think she’s even wearing any makeup. She looks hopelessly at Darcy, as if expecting answers to all of her unanswered questions. “How do you live with it, Darcy? How am I supposed to live knowing my mother is dead?”

Darcy squirms uncomfortably, wishing Lupin had come with her. No matter Emily’s feelings towards him, Darcy knows he’d at least be able to give Emily some sound advice. “Your mother may be gone, but she lives on in you,” Darcy says. “Just like my mother lives on in me.” She remembers what Lupin had told her all those months ago—a lifetime ago—when she’d confided in him her sorrow. “The pain never stops, but you learn to live with it.”

“Mum didn’t deserve that,” Emily cries, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. “And neither did your parents, Darcy.”

They’re quiet for a little while, appreciating each other’s company. Darcy’s heart races, and she wants to be anywhere other than here—far away from this, away from the suffering.

“I don’t blame you,” Emily rasps. “We’ve been best friends for years, and I know that you’re putting the blame on yourself, but it’s not your fault. I love you, Darcy.”

“I love you, too.”

Emily sniffles, picking the photographs back up, looking at them carefully. “Gemma says there’s a war coming,” she continues. “She thinks there’ll be more attacks just like that one.”

“If that’s true, you and your dad should get somewhere safe,” Darcy replies, trying not to imagine Death Eaters killing Emily’s Muggle father for a single reason—his lack of magic. “I don’t want you to know the pain of being an orphan.”

“Dad can hide if he wants,” Emily says again, a bit more confident. “But I’m not hiding. I’m not going to run away.”

Darcy frowns.

“If there is a war coming, I’m going to fight.” Emily pauses, letting her tears fall. “I’ll fight for mum, for your parents—for all the people who were never given the chance.”

Something in this sentiment stirs something inside of Darcy. Nodding, despite Emily not looking at her, Darcy feels anger overpower the grief she’s been feeling—anger towards the Death Eaters, anger towards the world. She thinks of her mother, who had died to protect her children—she thinks of Harry, how she would die to protect him. She thinks of her father, who had died for his family, who had been brave to the point of recklessness.

_I am my mother’s daughter._

Darcy nods shortly again, her voice steady for what seems like the first time in a week. “Me too.”

* * *

It’s perfect.

Seated before a fire, her hair still wet from a shower, a hot plate of dinner in her lap, seated on the sofa. And beside her, Lupin, his finished dinner set on the low table in front of them, along with her empty wine glass. He reads aloud to her, poems from a book he’d found at the bottom of his dresser. Darcy puts her plate on the table and picks up her camera. Lupin doesn’t stop reading as she takes a picture of him.

When he finishes the poem, he closes the book and looks at Darcy, who’s shaking the photograph the camera has just spit out. Darcy smiles weakly at him. “I wish we could do this every night,” she murmurs.

“We could.”

The prospect is tempting, and when the photograph appears, she notices that the corners of the picture-Lupin’s lips are turned upwards mid-sentence. She shows him quickly and puts it on the table along with her camera. “What will you do when I’m away?” she asks, curling up at his side and resting her head against his shoulder.

“Miss you,” he answers playfully, but Darcy can tell by the strain in his voice that he’s still wary of her emotions. “Think of you, ache for you—maybe look at the only photograph I have of you.”

For the past week she’s done nothing but avoid conversation, avoid anything that would involve some kind of action, and now she regrets not doing more with him. Tomorrow, she’ll be at Hogwarts, and Lupin will be far away from her and when she falls asleep, she won’t have someone to hold her.

Lupin leans back into the sofa and puts his feet up on the coffee table, pulling Darcy closer to him. With her cheek against his chest, she can hear the steady beating of his heart. “Why did you fight in the war?” she asks.

He hums and clears his throat, thinking for a moment. “I suppose—it was the right thing to do.”

“That’s all? You didn’t have something to fight for?”

“Darcy,” Lupin laughs. “I didn’t have anything to fight for. I had nothing to lose, so I decided to fight because I knew it was right.”

“Do you think there will be another war?”

“It’s hard to say,” Lupin answers slowly.

“If there is, I want to fight,” Darcy says. “Me and Emily, and Gemma and Carla. I’ll fight with you this time.”

“As if you don’t give me enough to worry about,” Lupin teases, giving her a squeeze. Darcy looks up into his face and sees the concerned etched in it. “Now I’ll have to worry about you fighting in a war that may or may not come.”

“You shouldn’t worry,” Darcy whispers, kissing his jaw. He lifts his head to expose his neck and she places soft kisses around the collar of his shirt. “You’ll be there to protect me.”

“As if you need protection,” he mumbles as Darcy continues to kiss up his neck again.

“But you’ll protect me anyway.”

“You know I will,” Lupin sighs as she kisses just below his ear. “Or die trying.”

She stops kissing him, inches from his face, looking into his eyes. “Don’t say that,” she says. All of a sudden, everything seems so real—people can die at any moment, without expecting it, without having a clue of knowing. “I can’t—don’t say that.”

“Everyone dies, Darcy,” he replies breathlessly, glancing down at her lips for a second. “When I die, it will be on my own terms. If I die knowing that you’re safe and loved, then I will die a happy man.”

“And I’d soon follow—surely due to a broken heart.”

“You’re flattering me.”

Darcy captures his lips in a bruising kiss, and Lupin kisses her back with a ferocity that’s half-unexpected. He moves quickly, repositioning himself to face her. Darcy flashes him a genuine smile as he breaks apart from her to pull his shirt over his head. Darcy lays back on the sofa, admiring him for a moment.

“I love you,” she whispers, the sight of him hovering above her making her slightly dizzy. “Do you know that?”

He kisses her hard, pulling away to settle himself between her legs, his fingers curling in the waistband of her pants, preparing to pull them down. “I know.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Wake up, love.”

Lupin places a soft kiss on her shoulder, his lips brushing against the raised scars that mar her skin. Darcy stirs, not wanting to ever leave the comfort of his arms. She can feel his heart beating, his chest pressed against her back, his fingers lightly tracing lazy circles on her stomach. His other arm, tucked underneath her head, helping to hold her in place against him, their legs entwined beneath the blankets.

Darcy opens her eyes an inch, the sunlight nearly blinding her. Her belongings are still strewn across the floor, clothes that had been unceremoniously thrown on the ground as they’d stumbled to the bedroom last night. Her trunk is open, revealing a mess inside, still needing to be packed for her return to Hogwarts, and Max’s cage is still empty, awaiting his return from a long night of hunting, but Darcy hears a sleepy hoot from the other side of the bedroom door and feels much more at ease knowing Max is back. Darcy sighs, closing her eyes again as Lupin kisses just behind her ear and chills run down her spine. She grabs at his hand that’s splayed across her stomach and laces their fingers together, burying her face in her pillow once more.

Everything is so uncertain. A few months ago, Darcy had been delighted at the idea of returning to Hogwarts, even under Snape’s watchful eye. The idea of returning to Hogwarts to be with Harry was something she couldn’t pass up, but that was before she’d known what it was to have a true home—a place she feels welcome and wanted and loved—a place where she can wake beside Lupin, wake up to his kisses, to his arm draped around her, to his voice. And while he has not asked her directly to stay with him, to forego this opportunity not offered to many, Darcy knows he’s been trying to convince her in other ways. Everytime he kisses her, her kisses her a little harder than she’s used to; every time he touches her, he makes sure that his fingers brush the places she likes to be touched best. These moments test her, make her long to stay with him, and she almost caved the previous night, when his fingers were tangled in her hair, his other hand on the small of her back. Over the slapping of flesh on flesh, Lupin had tugged gently on her hair in order to raise her head. He’d kissed the nape of her neck, murmuring affections into her sticky skin—how beautiful she is, how lovely and wonderful, and over and over and over again, _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ until Darcy had cried out for him in the darkness, her legs shaking violently and her knees weak and sore from kneeling on the mattress.

Maybe a week ago, Darcy would have changed her mind. Maybe a week ago, before the Quidditch World Cup, Darcy would have decided to stay with Lupin—or would she? Now, she knows she cannot stay. Not after knowing even just the vague details of Harry’s dream—of Voldemort’s desire to kill Harry, of Peter Pettigrew’s fervent loyalty (or is it merely cowardice that drove Pettigrew to his old master?) to Voldemort. If Gemma is right and there are more attacks, who’s to say Hogwarts will not be one of the places the Death Eaters choose to storm? The very place where both Potter siblings will be—the perfect place to lay siege, or attempt to. How would it be if, while Death Eaters stormed Hogwarts, she was lying in bed with Lupin—fucking him instead of protecting her brother?

Darcy inhales and exhales through her nose loudly and deeply and squeezes his hand again. She doesn’t want to move ever again, wants to feel this warmth and safety every moment of every day for the rest of her life—Gemma’s right, fuck whatever Sirius has to say, what Mr. Weasley has to say, whatever anyone has to say. No one will ever be able to tear her away from him—not Lupin, the man who has shown her love that Darcy has never thought possible. Darcy rolls over in his arms, kissing one of the love bites on his chest—his skin littered with small bruises that, when she’s gone, will remind Lupin that he’s her’s. She shuts her eyes again, nuzzling into his chest, the sun beating on her exposed back through the window.

Lupin hooks his arm underneath her own, lining his fingers up with the scars on her shoulder. He settles his cheek against the top of her head. “You should start getting ready,” he whispers, his voice tired and hoarse. “You don’t want to make a bad impression on your first day.”

“I have hours until I need to be there,” Darcy says, opening her eyes a tiny bit again to look into his face. There’s a smile on his face, a tired smile, that makes her insides squirm. “Let me at least look at you for a little while longer.”

“All you do is take pictures of me,” he teases, brushing the tip of his nose against Darcy’s before kissing the corner of her mouth. “Is that not good enough for you?”

Darcy shakes her head. “No,” she replies, giving him a small smile. “Of course pictures aren’t as good as the real thing.”

Lupin is quiet for a moment, looking down at her. His eyes flick from Darcy’s own to her lips, to her shoulder, to her exposed chest, back to her eyes. “You know I have to ask,” he breathes. “Or beg, more like. Please stay, Darcy.”

“I’ll visit as much as I can,” Darcy sighs, touching his face, her thumb caressing his cheekbone. “Every weekend—or until you get tired of me.”

“How could you think I would ever tire of you?”

Darcy smiles fondly, kissing him.

They eat breakfast together in their pajamas, and Darcy cherishes the simple intimacy, the shy smiles and comfortable silence between them as they watch a movie on the television. The past night has been something out of a dream—something perfect to distract her from everything that’s happened, and yet Darcy still feels weighed down by guilt and sorrow, her shoulders heavy from carrying the burden of knowing, it was my fault. Emily may not believe it, but Emily is grieving—she didn’t know what she was talking about.

Despite sleeping for hours and hours and hours all week (restlessly, due to her nightmares deciding to make a very sudden comeback), Darcy is exhausted in every way possible. Cruel thoughts creep up every so often, leaving her disgusted with herself.

_Emily will finally be able to understand,_ the voice says, _her_ voice, which makes it even worse. Darcy doesn’t mention these thoughts to Lupin, afraid he will believe her to be cruel and hurtful.

And just like so many years ago, when her own parents had died, feelings of resentment flood her on occasion. This is what she’s always wanted—what she’s always dreamed of—to wake next to someone she loves, to fall asleep curled up on someone’s chest, to be kissed and held and loved. And she wishes she were someone else—someone with the ability to choose her own happiness over her brother’s, someone who doesn’t have a brother that needs her, because—despite what everyone says—Darcy knows that Harry does. Darcy’s stomach churns each time she thinks of staying with Lupin, of finally giving into him, but at the cost of leaving her brother. And Darcy is forcibly reminded of her conversation with Mr. Weasley at the Leaky Cauldron, a conversation long forgotten after the World Cup.

_If I had just thrown myself in front of Harry, as our mother did,_ she thinks, feeling the need to cry again, _maybe I would have died, and maybe a quick end would have been better than a lifetime of suffering and indecision._

Darcy looks at Lupin, sighing heavily. He lowers his fork, seemingly sensing something coming. “I’m sorry about Mr. Weasley,” she says awkwardly, not wanting to jump right into a conversation about whether or not she should have died for Harry, or to save herself years’ worth of pain. “I didn’t realize he’d track you down or show up on your doorstep.”

“How much did you hear?” Lupin asks gently, frowning and looking incredibly apologetic.

“All of it.”

He nods slowly.

“I went to the Ministry with Mr. Weasley a few weeks ago,” she says. “Just for the day…” She recounts her day with Mr. Weasley, her meeting with Ludo Bagman, her reunion with Emily and the unwarranted jealousy she’d felt at the sight of Emily laughing with Tonks. She tells Lupin about Rita Skeeter approaching her and how Mr. Weasley had found out about she and Lupin. Quietly, shamefully, Darcy also tells him about Mr. Weasley chastising her in his office, and at this, Lupin rubs his face exasperatedly, running his hands through his hair. And then Darcy’s voice softens as she explains that, although Mr. Weasley had been angry with her, he hadn’t seemed inclined in the slightest to lay hands on her.

“I’m sorry,” Lupin says, shaking his head. In a matter of seconds, his demeanor changes, and he covers his face with his hands, groaning. “I’m sorry—Darcy, you shouldn’t—we shouldn’t—”

“We shouldn’t what?” Darcy asks softly, looking into his face as he lowers his hands. He continues to give her that apologetic and guilty look. Darcy feels the urge to be sick, and suddenly wishes to be anywhere but here. She lowers her voice and looks down into her lap. “If you don’t want me to be here, just say so, and I’ll go.”

“No,” Lupin says quickly, pleadingly. “Stay.”

She hesitates, wondering if she should say the very thing she wants to say next. Part of her is worried about his answer, but Darcy has already heard Mr. Weasley tell her—to her face—that Petunia was right. That’s the worst answer she could have received, isn’t it? “When I went back to Privet Drive, after I stayed here, Petunia told me something,” Darcy begins, watching his face very closely for any sign of reaction. “She said that men would always take an interest in me in our world, especially men who know my mother. A freak, she called her.”

Lupin’s jaw clenches. “I will not let you leave for Hogwarts believing I only care for you because I knew your mother.”

“But you think it’s true?” Darcy asks, and Lupin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck and grasping for words. “Tell the truth.”

He tenses, looking back at her. Lupin’s face seems to harden. “The truth?” he repeats, and Darcy raises her eyebrows and nods. “Fine, then. The truth. Of course it’s true—Darcy, you are naive to believe otherwise.”

“Don’t say that—”

“Ludo Bagman seems very taken with you already, from what you’ve told me,” Lupin continues quickly. “Severus seems to give you quite a bit less snide than everyone else—”

These words sting her. “Please stop.”

“You’re so young, so beautiful, so desirable, with access to Harry, The Boy Who Lived, but so easily tempted by affection and attention, and men will use that to their advantage, always,” Lupin finishes, ignoring her small plea to stop. “It’s a game to them, Darcy, and getting into your good graces is the goal.”

She had asked for the truth, and she can’t say Lupin hasn’t delivered. But his brutal honesty still hurts her, because he’s validating everything she’s been afraid of, everything she doesn’t want. “I told Aunt Petunia you were our teacher last year,” she whispers. “She remembered you. She guessed that you’d taken to me quickly.”

“How could I not have?” Lupin asks, his tone a bit softer. “You took to me because of your parents, too—because I knew them. Your parents are what brought us together, but they aren’t what’s keeping us together.” His cheeks turn faintly pink and he looks away from her, at the television. “I need you to know that this isn’t a game to me. I care about you, very much so, and—as much as I want this—if this is going to ruin you, I—I don’t want to add to your growing list of troubles.”

“You—this—it’s not going to ruin me.”

“It will in the end.”

Darcy looks at him for a long time. “We have a very long time until then.” Lupin doesn’t answer, and they both avoid each other’s eyes for a few moments. Then Darcy remembers something she’d wanted to ask him. “Do you think it was too much to expect of me to shield Harry from Voldemort’s curse?”

Lupin looks incredulous, turning his face to look at her. “You were barely five-years-old,” he scoffs. “No one would have expected that of you. You could have died.”

Darcy doesn’t look away from him, and Lupin looks pained for a moment.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he rasps, and Darcy believes him. “The feeling of losing everyone you care about in one night was the hardest thing I’ve ever known, and the pain of knowing what I am, the pain of the transformations, the pain of being alone—I used to wish I’d have died when I was bitten. If I had just bled out, I would never have to know pain like this.”

It momentarily stuns Darcy how well Lupin seems to understand her, without her having to even explain herself. Never has she known someone to be able to relate to her on such a level—not even Harry. Of course Darcy has always thought of his feelings, but has never considered the possibility that he could be hurting just as badly as she does. “And now?” Darcy asks, unsure if she’s ready for his answer.

“Now…” Lupin pauses, pursing his lips and thinking hard. “More recently, in fact, I feel as if living is much more preferable to the alternative. I have a roof over my head, money in my vault… a beautiful girl who shares my bed.”

Darcy smiles at him sadly.

“Come here.”

She obliges, moving closer to Lupin. He drapes an arm around her, holding her to him, and Darcy rests her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. Is it possible all of her pain and suffering has been worth it? That being here now, with him, to know a man’s touch and kindness and love—Darcy is overwhelmed with gratitude, thankful that Lupin is at her side, grateful that he hasn’t chosen someone else. And if it does ruin her in the end, as he insists it will, Darcy thinks it’ll all be worth it, as well. These little moments, when her heart leaps with love—his kisses and smiles and laughter—are surely worth the heartbreak that may or may not come later in life.

_Let me have this one thing,_ she begs, unsure of who she’s really addressing. _Please don’t take this one thing away from me._

Eventually, as time slips away, Darcy knows she cannot put leaving off any longer. She allows Max a head start, after he pecks at Lupin’s fingers (“Max, no! What did I tell you?”), and gives Darcy a cuddle. He flies off into the distance, and Darcy watches until he disappears into the sky.

Lupin helps her pack, and they both refrain from using magic; Darcy only does it slowly to prolong the time they have together, and she begins to feel nervous about returning to Hogwarts again—about seeing Snape again, who she knows probably will not be as fond of her as he once had been after the events at the beginning of the summer. But she is excited to see Harry and Carla, and even Ron and Hermione and Fred and George—the people she’s missed dearly the past week. And only then does she remember something.

“Gemma wants to meet with us,” Darcy tells Lupin as she pulls out some photographs and flips through them. “Can you make it into Hogsmeade in two weeks?”

“But that’s—”

“I know it’ll be close to the full moon. She promised to bring a large supply of your potion.”

Lupin pauses. “All right.”

Darcy holds out a photograph for him, the photograph of her sleeping that Lupin had taken weeks ago. “For you,” she smiles. “So you don’t forget what I look like.”

He takes it with a toothy grin. “It’ll go nicely with my collection.”

With her things completely packed and a few hours to go until the Hogwarts Express arrives at the station, Darcy checks her watch and sighs. Part of her can’t understand why it feels like she’s leaving forever when, if she wants, she can return in just a week. But it does feel like she’s leaving forever, leaving the life she could have—the life she wants—for a life she is having serious doubts about now. Why are choices so hard? Why can’t she ever make a confident choice?

Lupin walks her out to the front of the cottage, watching her from the threshold as she prepared to vanish on the spot. “I’ll see you soon, Darcy,” he says, leaning against the door frame.

“I’ll see you soon.” Darcy hesitates, looking at the scene before her. In another life, she wouldn’t be leaving—she’d be returning to this every night, never sleeping alone. Darcy puts her trunk and the empty cage down, closing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around his middle. “Bye.”

She takes a few steps backwards, grabs hold of her things, and turns on the spot.

Hogsmeade looks more or less the same as she remembers it. She’s always preferred the look of it around Christmas time—the roofs heavily laden with snow, decorated Christmas trees in the shop windows, the tantalizing comfort and coziness of the nearby pubs and small buildings. There are a few people already meandering down the High Street, some with shopping bags, others talking excitedly, heading into the Three Broomsticks for a drink. It’s cooler and breezier here than it had been at Lupin’s, and Darcy is grateful that the carriages are already waiting by the station. The thestrals paw at the ground—eerie looking horses with dragon-like features, including a lack of horse hair covering their black bodies.

One of them looks right at Darcy, and she wonders, for an instant, if Emily has ever been able to see them before. Darcy’s always been able to see the thestrals, and it never became a topic of conversation, as Darcy assumed everyone could see them. It hadn’t been until her sixth year, when Carla had started preparing for her O.W.L. in Care of Magical Creatures that she’d mentioned in passing about thestrals only being visible to those who’d seen death. She and Darcy had been alone in the library, and Darcy hadn’t answered, but the knowledge had given her chills.

Darcy looks around, searching for a sign of someone, but she’s quite alone. Even Hagrid is nowhere to be seen, and so Darcy clambers into the carriage, and as soon as she sits down, the thestral begins to move, carrying her up the sloping drive to the castle. It’s a silent ride, except for the rumbling of the carriage’s wheels and the snorting of the thestral; Darcy’s trunk rumbles and the empty owl cage rattles, giving Darcy a headache. She leans back in her seat and remembers this time last year—sharing a carriage with Lupin, exchanging awkward smiles each time they were caught looking at each other. Now, she’s alone, and it’s a bit nervewracking.

Upon reaching the front doors of the castle, Darcy drags her things out of the carriage, for some reason reaching out and stroking the thestral. The sky overhead has begun to darken, threatening rain, and the wind begins to pick up when Darcy steps inside. She has to admit, it’s a little spooky to be inside Hogwarts with little to no one around. The cavernous walls and ceiling seem larger than usual with no students to fill the corridor, and to not hear chatter and laughter from the Great Hall unsettles her, and Darcy wonders where to go from here. As the rain starts to fall outside, Darcy takes a few steps closer to the marble staircase, realizing how strange it will be not to be staying in Gryffindor Tower.

As she places a foot on the marble staircase, quick footsteps come hurrying towards her, and Professor McGonagall approaches—not from the floor above—but from the corridor that leads down to Snape’s classroom. Darcy lowers her trunk to the floor and smiles in spite of herself; McGonagall gives her a very thin, weak smile back and waves her wand, causing Darcy’s trunk and Max’s cage to levitate.

“Come, Potter,” she says swiftly, making her way up the staircase. “I’ll show you to what will be your home until June.”

Darcy follows, taking the steps two at a time to keep up.

“I heard about what happened at the Quidditch World Cup,” McGonagall continues, looking sideways at Darcy. “Is she doing all right?”

Darcy swallows noisily, looking at her feet. “Emily will be all right.”

“And you?”

Feeling a rush of affection for Professor McGonagall, Darcy smiles at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m fine.”

The rest of their walk is silent, until Professor McGonagall stops in front of a large portrait portraying an elderly couple playing cards, the background looking very hazy with multi-colored pipe smoke. The couple looks down at McGonagall as she gives what Darcy assumes is a password. At once, the portrait opens just like the Fat Lady, and Darcy steps over the threshold in wonder as her belongings follow her inside.

“I’ll see you at the feast, Potter. It’s good to see you back.” Professor McGonagall leaves, the portrait shutting behind her. Her trunk and Max’s cage sit at the entrance as Darcy looks around the room, half-amazed. The room is beautiful—more beautiful than it has any right to be—more beautiful than Darcy had expected. It’s almost slightly bigger than Lupin’s own home, with almost the same layout as the hidden apartment in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom’s office. There’s a large fireplace, bookshelves built into the walls, dusty and empty. Opposite the fireplace is a small kitchen area, more counterspace than Lupin had been given and a large sink in the middle. There’s a table with four dining chairs set around it, a slightly worn sofa and coffee table before the fireplace. Towards the back is a bedroom, the bed much larger than what she’s used to, and a tiny bathroom off the side.

It’s impressive and freeing to be able to call this space her own, and somehow intimidating. The only space she had ever been able to call her own is the guest bedroom at Privet Drive, and even that hadn’t been her’s for that long, and with Harry in and out of it and Darcy being shunted into Harry’s room when Marge came to visit, it’s nothing like this. She wonders how many rooms like this are hidden throughout the castle, how many portraits are hiding secrets behind them.

Slowly, still a bit overwhelmed, Darcy begins to unpack her things. She takes out all the photographs she’d brought with her, putting them into the nightstand drawer, except for three of them—the unmoving picture of she and Lupin, she and Harry, and she and all of her friends on their last day of school, are propped on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Halfway through unpacking her clothes, she hears the portrait hole creak open again and she exits the back room with her arms full of books, her heart leaping at the sight of Dumbledore brushing his robes off casually.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Darcy says quickly, putting the books on the shelf without bothering to sort them, and she blushes fiercely as his bright blue eyes are drawn to the pictures on the mantle.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he smiles, looking back into her face. “I just wanted a quick word before the school year officially begins. Is this is a bad time?”

“No,” Darcy answers, and Dumbledore takes a few steps closer, seating himself on the sofa. He sits up straight and motions for her to follow his lead. Darcy sits beside him, putting some distance between them.

“I hope you’re satisfied with your living arrangements?”

“Very much,” Darcy sighs, looking around her again. “Thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore looks at her for a long time, his gaze making her feel small, a very familiar look. She keeps her mouth shut, unsure what he’s going to say—so many things rush through her head—Snape, Lupin, the Quidditch World Cup. “I was very sorry to hear about Miss Duncan’s mother,” he finally says quietly and Darcy feels her stomach knot. “I have to admit that the presence of the Dark Mark at the World Cup has worried me.”

Darcy, thinking of Harry’s dream, decides to say nothing. Harry had been so adamant about not telling Dumbledore his scar hurt, but what if he had just said something? But the idea of admitting to Dumbledore that she had known something would possibly happen makes her ill—surely Dumbledore would blame her, would know that it’s her fault, would think her a coward.

“I have not come to chastise you, Darcy,” Dumbledore says quietly, his lips turned upwards. “I know that you have been through a lot in the past few months, and I also know that you have been taken better care of this summer than many of them.” At this, he smiles in earnest. “Imagine my surprise when, just a week ago, I received an urgent owl from Arthur Weasley, politely demanding the location of Remus Lupin’s home.”

“And you just gave it to him, sir?”

“You had just been through the terrible ordeal at the World Cup and disappeared without letting anyone know where you were going,” Dumbledore replies, frowning. “You were missing. Of course I told Arthur where he could find Remus. Next time, Darcy, at least tell someone where you’re going before you just go.”

“I didn’t mean to run off, sir, I just—I couldn’t go back to the Burrow. I couldn’t be around all of them. I couldn’t.” Darcy hesitates, looking up at the photograph of she and Harry. “I’ve been thinking about mum and dad a lot.”

“Naturally.” Dumbledore waits for her to continue, but Darcy doesn’t say anything further. “I would like to ask something of you—a simple request, nothing more.”

“What is it, Professor?”

“Given recent events, I think it necessary for you to stay alert. Keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, and—as always—keep an eye on Harry.”

Darcy blinks, sitting up straighter, her hands in her lap. “Gemma—my friend—thinks there’s going to be another war,” she says, narrowing her eyes at Dumbledore’s lack of reaction. “Remus says it’s hard to say. Do you think there will be another war, sir?”

Dumbledore thinks for a minute. Darcy gets the impression that Dumbledore isn’t telling her exactly what he thinks when he answers, “I’m afraid Remus is right. It’s hard to say.” He sighs and smiles, getting to his feet. Darcy stands with him. “I’ll see you at the feast, Miss Potter. I’ve taken enough of your time already.”

She watches Dumbledore cross the room to the door before one more thing occurs to her that she’d much rather ask in private. “Professor Dumbledore,” she calls out, and he stops and turns around. Dumbledore waits patiently for her to speak, his hands held behind his back. “Has Professor Snape said anything about me?”

He gives her a disappointed look and Darcy blushes again. “You shouldn’t have said those things to Professor Snape, Darcy.”

“I meant everything I said,” she whispers, anger bubbling inside her again at the thought of Snape. “I hate him—”

“And yet you are still here, still willing to work with and for him.”

“I didn’t have a choice, sir.”

“Of course you have a choice,” Dumbledore says. “You chose to return, and it would be wise not to test Professor Snape’s patience while you are here. He has done you a kindness allowing you to return as his assistant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore leaves her at that, but Darcy only feels worse. It’s her own fault for sabotaging her working relationship with Snape (would there ever have been a normal working relationship between them?), but it’s Snape’s fault in the long run. Snape was the one who ruined everything—who forced her godfather to go into hiding, living on the run far away from Darcy. He was the one who outed Lupin, potentially ruining his life.

It’s funny, she thinks, seeing as she’s no longer a student—but she’s never dreaded a Potions lesson more.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry—I’ve been on vacation!

It’s odd looking down at the scene.

Students file into the Great Hall, smiling and laughing, looking exhausted, but at the same time relieved to be back at Hogwarts. She sees Carla walk in with two Hufflepuff girls, and she waves at Darcy before taking a seat at one of the elongated tables. Harry, Hermione, and Ron follow her inside, all flashing her bright smiles. The sight of them reassures her, especially the sight of her brother, looking proudly up at Darcy as he sits at the Gryffindor table. Darcy glances down the staff table, eyeing the empty chair that Lupin had occupied last year, and catches Hagrid’s eye, grinning at him before looking back at the empty seat. Snape hadn’t told her who the new teacher was, only told her that she’d soon find out.

“Stop that,” Snape hisses in her ear.

Darcy’s leg stops bouncing. Three times now he’s asked her to stop shaking her leg, but she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. “Sorry,” she replies breathlessly. “I’m nervous.”

Snape doesn’t answer, and she looks over at him. He looks just the same as the last time Darcy had seen him—ugly, greasy, hook-nosed, and menacing. Perhaps it’s because all eyes are on them now, and the fact that Dumbledore is seated very close by, but Darcy’s surprised by Snape’s attitude towards her. Since they’d met again in the Entrance Hall, Snape has been—for lack of a better word—polite. There is still a sharpness in his voice when he speaks, but nothing that suggests only months ago they’d yelled at each other, that Darcy had told him she hated him—which, of course, she still does. Lupin’s sentiment about Snape being fond of her reverberates in her head, and she quickly looks away from him.

Looking up and down the staff table once more, Darcy can’t help but feel incredibly out of place, incredibly inadequate seated beside all these fully trained and qualified witches and wizards—to be seated at the same table as Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard to ever live according to some, is an honor, but at the same time intimidating. She had given so much thought about returning and being with Harry, that Darcy had thought very little about the actual job over the summer. She hadn’t thought once about how students might receive her in classes, how odd it must be for everyone to see Darcy Potter seated at Snape’s right side at the staff table.

When Professor McGonagall leads in a long line of soaking wet first years, Darcy smiles. She remembers being that frightened looking—all eyes upon her eleven-year-old self, trembling and watery-eyed. Her stomach growls, however, as the Sorting Hat sings a song she barely hears—years of hearing its songs of the qualities that define the four Houses, and Darcy starts to drift off, looking around the crowd of students listening raptly to the Sorting Hat.

Carla whispers to her friend and they share a laugh and Darcy feels the same churning in her stomach the day she’d seen Emily laughing with Tonks. Darcy tears her eyes away, looking up and down the Slytherin table, missing the presence of Gemma among the many other students, some of who glance at Darcy every so often. She wonders if the absence of both Emily and Gemma this year will weigh on Carla, as well, or if she’ll just continue on with her new friends and not worry about her old ones.

Darcy then looks at the Gryffindor table, picking out her three favorite Gryffindors quite easily. Ron sits facing her and smiles, causing Harry and Hermione to follow his line of vision. She smiles back at the three of them, before the smile falls. Darcy feels suddenly lonely in this room full of people, feeling that having Carla and three thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds as her only friends is quite sad. Before the truth came out in June, Darcy had thought Lupin would be here, too—sitting beside her at the staff table, able to spend time with her whenever she needed company.

The Sorting takes a long time, and Darcy remembers the feeling of being swallowed by the hat for a few short seconds—that’s all it had taken for the Sorting Hat to decide where to place her, for as soon as it was on her head, it had shouted, “Gryffindor!” Professor McGonagall had clapped loudly for her, as well as the rest of her fellow Gryffindors. She takes notice of the many new Ravenclaws, her stomach roaring now, every so often sharing an awkward, sideways look at Snape.

When the feast begins, Darcy suddenly loses her appetite. She stares down at her empty plate, watching the other teachers load their own with piles of potatoes and meat and vegetables, steaming and delicious.

Everything is so real all of a sudden. Darcy can hardly believe that she’s here—at Hogwarts—eating Hogwarts food and going to help Snape teach his classes. Why had she wanted to come back so badly? Why had this job tempted her so much? How could she have willingly left Lupin in the threshold of his front door to come live at Hogwarts?

_Because Hogwarts is the only home I’ve ever known. Because Harry is here. Because all I’ll ever be is Harry’s protector. Because I’ll never be able to be someone’s—what are we?_

“Darcy,” Snape snaps, and Darcy looks at him, just now realizing her leg is leaping, up and down, up and down, up and down. She stops the bouncing of her leg, her breathing very heavy. “Stop doing that.”

“I think I’m freaking out,” Darcy mutters, unsure of what she expects Snape to do about it. She wants Emily, or Lupin—the two people who could talk her down from anything, and for the first time, Darcy wonders how she’ll ever make it a whole year at Hogwarts without either of them. _I lived for twelve years without Lupin—surely I can live without him always at my side._ But Emily, who had always been readily available whenever Darcy needed her, is a different story. Darcy looks down at her hands, splayed upon the table, slightly sweaty. Then, she looks at Snape again. Instead of two of her favorite people in the world, Darcy will be spending a good part of the year next to someone she loathes—despises—and the idea of that is not at all appealing, but it’s too late to change her mind—too late to tell Dumbledore she wants out. “I can’t do this—I can’t do this.”

Snape raises an eyebrow, looking almost amused. “You play the part of a Gryffindor well when someone’s holding your hand,” he says, lowering his fork down to his plate. Snape leans in closer, glancing around at the other staff seated around them. “Not so brave when Duncan isn’t here to walk you down the corridors, are you? Not so brave without Lupin around to protect you?”

They stare at each other and Darcy frowns. “You don’t know anything about me,” she growls, glad for the anger Snape’s face causes her, a distraction from thoughts of loneliness and sadness.

“Still bitter about the loss of—what I’m sure would have been a touching relationship—with your felon of a godfather?”

Darcy leans in closer. “He’s not a felon, and you know it,” Darcy hisses. “The real killer is out there right now, thanks to you, likely helping Voldemort orchestrating more Death Eater attacks—” She stops herself, realizing too late she’s said too much. Darcy quickly looks away from Snape, letting her next retort spill out of her before she can stop herself. “I bet you’d love to join them, wouldn’t you?”

Snape tenses, and Darcy thinks that, if they were alone, she likely would have received a smack on the face. He doesn’t say anything, but she knows she will pay for her remark eventually, when Snape is able to get her alone.

The food disappears suddenly and desserts appear in front of her, all around her. Darcy holds her head in her hands, not wanting to argue with Snape—lacking even the energy to tell him how much she hates him. She thought that coming back to Hogwarts would make her happy—bring back the joy she’d always felt when returning as a student. But now she feels next to no joy—with half of her friends gone, with Lupin gone, it only makes her heart ache.

For years, she couldn’t wait to grow up, to be an adult, out of school and flourishing in the Wizarding World with her friends at her side. Now she wants nothing more than be a student again in her seventh year, carefree and smiling. She wants to have dinner in the comforts of Lupin’s apartments again, drink in abandoned classrooms and bathrooms. How easy life had been, and Darcy never stopped to appreciate it. She had always dwelled on lurking dangers and vague warnings, never being able to fully enjoy those little moments that she longs for now. To be able to sit under the beech tree with Emily, Gemma, and Carla—flipping through textbooks and finishing essays while having light conversation—or to submerge herself in the prefect’s special bath with Gemma, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other sounds like something out of a dream. Why couldn’t she have just taken a minute out of her day to be happy and at peace? Why couldn’t she have just brushed off the dangers like Harry has always been able to do?

_Because I know what’s at stake, especially now that Emily’s mother is gone._

The first casualty of a war that no one can tell her is really coming or not. Harry has never known loss to the degree Darcy has, and it shows. Darcy had been just five when her mother was killed in front of her—she was the one who’d been plagued with nightmares for years over it, cursed with the memory of it, and Harry had been so little and so tiny that it never affected him the way it had Darcy. Harry had his sister to look after him, to take up the role of his mother where Petunia refused to step in. And while Darcy knows the loss of their parents has affected Harry, she can’t help but to think, _he doesn’t know what it has done to me. He’ll never know the pain that loss has caused me._

Harry had had his first taste of near loss during his second year, and Darcy remembers looking down at Hermione’s Petrified body with Harry and Ron at her side. Darcy’s always been fond of Hermione, and her being Petrified had shaken Darcy to her core. Darcy had been too familiar with death and loss, much more familiar with the feeling than her brother and Ron. They hadn’t understood the severity—they were only twelve, after all, naive and still children. Darcy wants to believe that, has she been twelve at the time, she would have been the same—determined to solve the mystery, determined to cure Hermione, oblivious to what attacks on Muggleborns actually meant.

“Attacks on Muggleborns aren’t new,” Gemma had told her, a little while after Hermione had been Petrified. “There will always be people out there who will see Muggleborns as filth, people who will call for the removal of them from the Wizarding World.”

“Like you?” Darcy had asked scathingly, still hurt after seeing Hermione.

But Gemma had only laughed. “You think because I’m in Slytherin, I must hate Muggleborns on principle? Where in all the Sorting Hat’s songs was that core trait?”

She was right. The Quidditch World Cup proved that the Death Eaters were still out there, biding their time, still upholding their traditional values and not only attacking Muggleborns, but Muggles.

So engrossed in her own thoughts, Darcy doesn’t realize that the desserts have disappeared, as well, and it isn’t until there’s a loud BANG! does she look up, jumping. The doors of the Great Hall have opened, and through them steps a man she’s never seen before. His appearance unsettles her—a clearly battle-hardened man, with a wooden leg (she assumes, as each time he takes a step, there’s a clunking sound), most of his nose missing, and several long scars on his face. These scars are not like the fading ones that Lupin carries, but deep gashes that make the man look almost grotesque, especially with the way his gray hair frames his face. But nothing startles her more than his eyes—one is completely normal, sweeping the Great Hall as he makes his way to the staff table, but his other eye makes her heart swoop and Darcy momentarily forgets to breathe, feeling both disgusted and slightly curious. The man’s other eye is larger than the other, bright blue, and it moves separately from his normal eye, magically, non-stop, rolling all over and up into his head and off to the side and it even stops on Darcy for a moment.

He continues to limp towards Dumbledore, quickly shakes the Headmaster’s hand, and takes the empty seat at the staff table that had once belonged to Lupin.

Dumbledore continues brightly, addressing the students once more. “May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher—Professor Moody!”

“Where did Dumbledore find him? What’s wrong with him?” Darcy whispers in Snape’s ear as Dumbledore keeps talking. “Why is his eye like that?”

Snape looks at her, looking as if he had expected her to be completely bewildered. “Mad-Eye Moody, as he’s known, is an Auror.”

The name makes Darcy think hard for a moment. “Emily mentioned him!” she says, keeping her voice low. And something occurs to her that’s even more unsettling than Moody’s frightening eye. “But why has Dumbledore brought an Auror in? He doesn’t expect trouble, does he?”

“I don’t really think it’s your place to know why Dumbledore does what he does,” Snape replies shortly. They meet eyes, and pause while Dumbledore glances at them, reminding Darcy of McGonagall giving she and Emily a look during one of her classes, silently telling them to be quiet. However, Dumbledore doesn’t quite look so severe. In fact, he turns away almost immediately and continues. “However, it seems applicants for the job were—lacking.”

“And you were one of them, I’m sure?”

Snape scowls at Darcy.

“...it is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

As the students erupt in conversation and laughter and disbelieving quips, Darcy uses the noise to keep the conversation going. She moves her chair an inch closer to Snape, and he doesn’t fail to notice. “Is it true people have died in the Triwizard Tournament?” she whispers, suddenly very worried as she looks at all the happy faces on the students. Carla, in particular, looks intrigued as she listens to Dumbledore explain the history of the Triwizard Tournament. “I met Ludo Bagman over the summer with Mr. Weasley and they said—”

“Ludo Bagman?” Snape interrupts, narrowing his eyes at her. “You’ve spoken to Ludo Bagman?”

“Yes,” Darcy replies slowly, annoyed that Snape interrupted her. “Once at the Ministry—when I visited over the summer—and twice at the World Cup. He found me after… everything.” She sighs, remembering Mrs. Duncan’s frozen face. “Is that why Dumbledore’s put an Auror in Hogwarts? Because he’s afraid people might die in this tournament?”

“...the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year,” Dumbledore booms. “Only students who are of age—that is to say, seventeen years or older, will be allowed to put their names for consideration.”

Dumbledore’s words make Darcy’s heart lighter, but they do not have the same effect on everyone else. At once, the students from all four Houses erupt into shouts and yells. Fifth and sixth year students look the angriest—but most seventh years looks relatively smug amongst their fellows. Carla still listens to Dumbledore with hungry eyes and Darcy wants to take her by the shoulders and shake sense into her.

Darcy looks at Snape, bored with the uprising of students and looking immensely pleased when Dumbledore begins to quiet them. Their hushed conversation has made Darcy feel suddenly very comfortable asking him such a question—if there is anyone in the world who will not sugarcoat answers for her wellbeing or lie to make her feel better, it is Snape, and undercover of Dumbledore’s speech, Darcy leans in and asks him, “Professor, do you think there’s a war coming? Is that the real reason Professor Dumbledore has brought Mad-Eye here?”

Snape doesn’t look at her, but absentmindedly rubs his left arm. He looks slowly at her again, considering her with a much softer expression than normal. Darcy waits, gripping the table, waiting for Snape to confirm her worst fears. “Why would you think that? Who told you that?”

Darcy purses her lips, wondering if it’s a good idea or not to tell the truth. But she remembers that Gemma was in Slytherin House, and surely Snape would believe her. “My friend Gemma told me,” Darcy whispers. “And her parents are Death Eaters.”

“I’m well aware of who her parents are,” Snape retorts quickly. “But I would not rely only on the words of an eighteen-year-old witch, especially one like Miss Smythe.”

“Why shouldn’t I believe Gemma? You think she’s wrong?” Darcy asks. When Snape doesn’t answer, she persists, leaning closer and looking around. Everyone’s attention is being held by Dumbledore, and Darcy feels it’s as good a time as any to speak. “Professor Dumbledore told me, just before the feast, that I should keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.”

“What extraordinary advice.”

When Dumbledore dismisses all the students, a few linger to voice their anger, but as they file out, Darcy remains. Carla catches her eye and waves before disappearing. Snape makes no move to leave, either, and only a few other teachers have gotten to their feet—Hagrid getting to his massive ones. He wanders over to Darcy and beams at her, but Darcy can only offer him a very forced smile. “Hi, Hagrid.”

“Darcy,” he says with a slight nod. “Happy to be back?”

“As happy as I can be.”

Hagrid seems to sense her misery, and his smile falls. “Why don’ yeh come visit on Friday? Could use some company after classes.”

“Friday?” Darcy repeats, squirming in her seat. “That sounds wonderful, Hagrid, but—” She glances at Snape and then back at Hagrid, not wanting to reveal her plans to see Lupin in front of them and risk raised eyebrows and a scolding from Hagrid. “Sure, I’ll be there.”

Both Darcy and Snape watch Hagrid leave the Great Hall. When the staff table begins to clear in earnest, Darcy stands up and makes her way back to her apartments slowly, climbing the stairs and it takes her a few minutes of muttering the password to random portraits before the correct one swings open. To her surprise, a fire has been lit in the hearth, making the entire place seem much more cozy. Darcy looks to the sofa, wishing Lupin were sitting there waiting for her to return, his nose buried in a book, or just waking up upon hearing the door creak open. The photographs on the mantle are in the same position that she had put them in, and they make Darcy smile.

Despite it still being early, with thunder crashing and rattling the windows, and lightning brightening her modest bedroom, Darcy changes and crawls under the blankets, and it isn’t long until she falls asleep.

Her dreams are jumbled, a mixture of happy feelings and terror—her mother crashing to Harry’s bedroom floor, flashes of green light and the crushing sensation of something on her legs, Sirius holding her to his chest afterwards, helping Hermione pull Ron to the hospital wing knowing that Harry was likely about to die, the crunch of bones beneath her feet in the Chamber of Secrets, the vivid memory of handsome Tom Riddle, Sirius holding her in the Shrieking Shack and Darcy crying against his chest—

Darcy wakes with a start, her heart beating a violent tattoo in her chest, her skin sticky with cold sweat, her mind racing, and out of instinct, she reaches out with her hand to grab Lupin, but her fingers touch nothing but air. Closing her eyes, Darcy rolls over, hoping that when she opens them, he will be there. But upon opening them, the other side of Darcy’s bed is still empty. Loneliness consumes her suddenly and she curls up under her blankets, crying into her pillow. She’s never been so alone—always, she’s been able to sneak into Harry’s room if need be to sleep beside him, or climb under Emily’s covers in their dormitory, or more recently, wake from a nightmare with Lupin’s hand on her arm or his arm around her, grounding her—reminding her that she’s safe.

She cries for her mother and father, wanting to be reminded of the safety of her parents arms. She cries for Sirius to come back, to take her into his arms and never let go. She cries for Lupin, miles and miles away, likely sleeping soundly or aching for Darcy’s presence, as well. All she knows is that she doesn’t want to sleep alone, she wants someone beside her to hold her as she attempts to toss and turn during her restless sleep.

Darcy gets out of bed and looks out the window with her arms around her. The stars are visible tonight, bright against the inky night sky. She remembers Petunia trying to force her to say prayers before bed when she was young—when she had first moved in with the Dursleys—claiming that it would help her sleep. But Darcy never prayed. Even now, she can’t find it in her to pray to a God that has always been indifferent to her suffering. But now, Darcy almost considers it, desperate for anything to help her sleep. The last thing she wants to do is wander down to Madam Pomfrey’s on her first night for something to ease the nightmares. Darcy closes her eyes.

_Please don’t let them come again. Haven’t I suffered enough without having to relive it nearly every night?_

It’s a sorry excuse for a prayer and it doesn’t make Darcy feel any better. She thinks maybe getting drunk would be better, or a ‘stress cigarette’ as Gemma called it. To be drunk would be a blessing—to be able to sleep through the night would be a blessing.

 _I can’t do this,_ she thinks, _but I must._

To be anywhere but here—to be anyone but Darcy Potter—would be a blessing.

 


	14. Chapter 14

_Tap-tap-tap._

“I’m awake—I’m awake.”

_Tap-tap-tap._

“Go away!”

_Tap-tap-tap._

“Fine—I’m coming!”

_Tap-tap-tap._

Darcy opens her eyes and lifts her head from her pillow. The other half of the bed hasn’t been disturbed, and when a shadow crosses the blankets, she lifts her eyes to the window and sees the outline of her owl, Max. Darcy rushes to the window, throwing it open and letting him in. He doesn’t have any letters or packages, but his presence alone makes her smile. Only then does she remember she has things to do today and checks her watch.

The feast has already started, and Darcy dresses quickly, throwing her robes on overtop of her outfit, and upon looking at herself in the mirror, feels very out of place in her own body. For seven years, she’d donned the Hogwarts school uniform beneath her robes, and Darcy slightly misses the ease of having a uniform to wear. As strange as it is, Darcy still feels rather attached to the uniform, seeing how she’d lived in it most of the year, had thought the gray sweater looked decent on her, had many adventures in that uniform, had not only dreamed of Lupin tearing at her tie and unbuttoning her blouse with an unnecessary ferocity, but _lived_ it.

Max is fast asleep on the top of the shelving by the fireplace when Darcy leaves the room for breakfast. Students are already seated at the tables, reading through schedules already distributed by their Heads of Houses. Carla is already there, poring over her own schedule with a brown-haired seventh year boy. Darcy takes her seat beside Snape, and when she looks towards the Hufflepuff table again, Carla is beaming at her, mouthing the word, _Potions_! and holding up her index finger. Darcy can’t help but to smile back—if there is one thing that will make her first day easier, it’s being able to see Carla in the first class.

“You’re nearly late,” Snape hisses, hidden behind the day’s newspaper.

“I didn’t sleep well.” Darcy, having forgotten dinner the previous night, loads her plate with breakfast before it has the chance to disappear. “Did an owl come with my paper?”

“Yes.” Snape flips to the next page of his paper.

“So where is it?”

“You weren’t here.”

“You couldn’t have given the owl a single Knut for me?” Darcy stuffs her mouth full of food and glances at Snape. “Can I at least borrow the parts you’re not reading?”

Snape obliges, to Darcy’s great surprise, and hands her the front page. Immediately upon seeing the picture below one of the shorter articles, her heart sinks. She examines the picture carefully, running her fingers over the silhouette of the Burrow in the background, watching Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shuffling uncomfortably in front of it. She reads the article quickly, the memory of crashing the flying car into the Whomping Willow almost fresh in her mind as the article drones on. It’s not a particularly nice article, but not as foul as it could be, and when Darcy reaches Mad-Eye Moody’s name in the next paragraph, she looks down the staff table.

“Mr. Weasley involved in a tussle with policemen?” Darcy scoffs. “Over aggressive dustbins? ‘Once again raised a false alarm’...” She looks at Moody again, watching him sniff at a piece of sausage speared on his fork before eating it. This alone seems to confirm her suspicions about him, but she asks Snape in a low voice anyway, “Is Moody a little—crazy?”

“It depends on who you ask,” he answers quickly. “He has caught an extraordinary amount of Dark wizards, and was an extraordinary Auror.”

But Darcy isn’t listening anymore. On the next page, another photograph jumps out at her—a photograph that makes her want to cry. It’s an older photo—Emily must be only six or seven, sitting on her father’s shoulders, his arm wrapped around a beautiful woman, Mrs. Duncan. They’re all smiling, looking up at each other with faces full of love and happiness, and Darcy is forcibly reminded of the old photographs of herself and her parents. This is a family who loves each other very much, a family that never deserved to feel the pain of losing a loved one, a family that never deserved to be broken just like Darcy’s had.

Below the photograph, Darcy reads the headline, her heart beating quickly.

_FAMILY GRIEVES DAILY PROPHET REPORTER KILLED AT QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP_

_Elizabeth Duncan, 42, a reporter for the_ Daily Prophet _was found dead when Ministry wizards stumbled upon her body at the Quidditch World Cup. Her body showed no signs of trauma and Elizabeth is believed to have been a victim of the Killing Curse._

_The Duncan family requests that donations be made in her name to St. Mungo’s Magical Maladies And Injuries._

_Elizabeth Duncan is survived by her mother, Victoria Miller, 73; her siblings, Anthony Miller, 44, Delilah Yocum, 40, and Sarah Miller, 37; her husband, Thomas Duncan, 47; and their daughter, Emily Duncan, 18, who has just recently graduated from the prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_.

_To read Elizabeth’s obituary, contributed by her daughter, see page D2_.

Darcy reads it several times, a mixture of feelings rising in her. The past week at Lupin’s, Darcy hasn’t read much of the Daily Prophet, busy sleeping and sulking and trying to avoid any news of other deaths. The article makes the guilt gnaw at her again, but the lateness of the announcement makes Darcy slightly wary. Emily’s mother had died just over a week ago—the funeral service had already come and gone. She’s glad Max is back, as Darcy thinks a quick letter to Mr. Weasley might get her the answer she’s looking for.

As much as she doesn’t want to read Emily’s mother’s obituary, Darcy can’t help herself. Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she hastily switches papers with Snape, snatching page D2 out of his hands before he has time to offer it to her. Darcy finds the article quickly and begins to read, wishing Emily were with her.

_My mother was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Smart—not only in a bookish way—but in the ways of the world, dedicated to her family and friends and job, eager for more knowledge, the best writer in the_ Daily Prophet. _She was the best woman I’d ever known, the woman I aspire to be._

_I grew up with loving parents, a luxury I have taken for granted for my entire life. My mother doted on me, as mothers do upon their children, buying me everything I needed in order to express myself, whether that be art supplies or dancing lessons. She never brushed me off when I expressed interest in a certain activity, showed such excitement when I showed signs of magic, always made sure that I never felt out of place, that I always knew my worth as a woman in a world of men._

_My mother contributed hundreds of articles to the_ Daily Prophet, _and was the recipient of two Golden Quill Awards—once in 1979 and again in 1984—for her excellent journalism skills. I was very young when she won the first one, but I remember the second one. We went out for dinner the following night, just the two of us, and by the end of the week, my mother had written a very short article about our dinner—an article that hangs in my bedroom even now. In it, she had described our excitement over just being near each other. She described in great detail how much she loved me, how much she loved spending time with me, the exact outfit I had picked out for that night (an outfit that I associated with my mother). She let me talk the whole night about everything and nothing—things that children talk about, and she listened to everything I had to say with a smile on her face._

_That is how I remember my mother. Kind almost to a fault, beautiful, loving, and quite possibly the best mother any young girl could have ever asked for._

_My world is darker without her, but if I have learned one thing, it is that our mothers—when they are gone—live on inside of us. My mother will never truly be gone as long as I live._

Below the article is a picture of Emily and her mother. Darcy imagines that when Mrs. Duncan was a young girl, she probably looked very much like Emily in the way Darcy resembles her own mother. The picture is lovely—Emily, maybe five years old, holding onto her mother’s hand, both of them wearing yellow sundresses and black hats to shield them from the sun.

Emily’s words leave Darcy feeling hollow, and only when she looks up from the paper does she realize her cheeks are wet.

_Our mothers—when they are gone—live on inside of us._

Darcy lowers the paper, looking down at her breakfast plate. She feels cruel for ever thinking Emily hadn’t understood her—had never understood Darcy’s longing for her dead mother, but now there is no way around it. She wonders if Emily had been thinking of her when she wrote that piece—wonders if Emily had cried while writing it. Without thinking, she tears Emily’s article out of the page and folds it up, tucking it into her pocket.

* * *

 

Carla’s Potions class is much smaller than Darcy’s had been. There are a small handful of Ravenclaws, who outnumber the other students, two Slytherins, two Gryffindors, and Carla. Carla seats herself with the other Gryffindors around a table, and Darcy smiles, imagining herself and Emily, joined by Gemma. The image makes her chuckle to herself as she recalls the looks on the Slytherins’ faces when Gemma had sat with the Gryffindors.

Snape looks down at the book on his desk, detailing a complicated potion, and Carla smiles encouragingly at Darcy from in between the two Gryffindors. Darcy smiles back, but the sight of Carla with new friends makes Darcy slightly uncomfortable, and the familiar feeling of disgust creeps up—disgust at the jealousy she feels, at the anger she feels towards these innocent Gryffindors who hadn’t asked for Carla to sit with them. Flattening her robes and looking to Snape for guidance, Darcy hangs behind him as he looks at the class.

“As you have all likely noticed,” he begins slowly, glancing at Darcy over his shoulder. “Miss Potter will be joining us for the year, and will be helping where I see fit.”

A few students clap awkwardly (Carla included), unsure of what to do. Darcy blushes.

“Now, if you’ll turn to page sixty-eight, we’ll get started…”

Darcy doesn’t do much. When Snape wanders around the classroom, he beckons Darcy to follow. He points into each of the cauldrons, muttering quietly about what has gone wrong and what the students have done right. In fact, Darcy enjoys it—enjoys learning as much as she can, and Snape doesn’t snap at her once, to her surprise. She even thinks that, if he were like this all of her seven years, Snape might have been one of the best teachers she’s had. He intimidates the other students whenever he approaches with Darcy at his side, but refrains from being too cruel—however, she knows that will likely change when they encounter a class that doesn’t know as much as this one. In fact, Darcy absolutely dreads having to witness Harry’s Potions class, knowing that Snape will likely not hold back upon seeing Harry again.

At the end of the lesson, the classroom smelling like a mixture of burned rubber and lavender, Carla packs up slower than the rest of her classmates. Snape turns his back on her and Darcy approaches her friend, smiling a genuine smile—feeling foolish for having been so anxious. “How’d I do?” Darcy asks with a laugh.

“You were great,” Carla jokes. “You’re perfect at standing around looking pretty.”

“That’s why I got the job, didn’t I tell you?”

The two of them laugh softly, and Darcy swears she can hear Snape grumbling something under his breath, but he keeps his back to them. “I’ll catch up with you during dinner,” Carla says, slinging her back over her shoulder. “You can show me your new place.”

Darcy grins, nodding. “Sure.”

She watches Carla go, her heart a little lighter.

Darcy takes lunch alone in the courtyard, seated cross-legged in a sunny corner. She eats slowly with one hand, the other hand gripping a quill, attempting to keep her piece of parchment flat while writing messier than usual. She’d decided to write Emily first about her first day at Hogwarts instead of Lupin (it had been a fierce debate, really, between her head and her heart, who to write first) for several reasons. Instead of wasting time and energy writing Lupin, she’ll just tell him everything during the weekend, and Darcy wants to bring up to Emily the article she’d written about her mother, not wanting to wait very long to discuss it. But at the same time, Darcy wishes she would have just written to Lupin—the idea of him not being around all the time to talk to is becoming more and more distressing to Darcy, but she refuses to admit this to anyone, afraid of coming off as childish or needy—two things she desperately doesn’t want to be.

The day continues, almost the same as the first class. Snape informs each class at the very beginning that Darcy will be with them for the year, and the students are barely interested. They ignore her for the most part, except for a few first and second years who look helplessly at her whenever Snape scrunches his nose at their cauldrons. To these frightened and pale children, Darcy whispers in their ears, helping them along, and while Snape seems to notice, he decides not to say anything.

When classes are over and dinner approaches, Darcy waits outside the doors to the Great Hall, looking around for curly, dark hair, her stomach rumbling. Darcy checks her watch and jumps when someone calls her name from over her right shoulder. She turns to find Harry, Hermione, and Ron walking up to her, Hermione leading them.

“Darcy, did you know that there are house-elves here?” Hermione asks and Darcy raises an eyebrow, looking from Harry to Ron, hoping for an answer to all of her unasked questions—the most important probably being, what? “House-elves make the food—”

“That’s not the only thing they do. They stoke the fires, clean the common room, tidy the dormitories. They’re quite nice—used to give Emily and me food whenever we wanted some,” Darcy chuckles nervously, unsure of where this is going. Behind Hermione, Ron tries silently to stop Darcy from talking. Darcy trails off, meeting Hermione’s eyes again and feeling that it would have been better to feign ignorance or say nothing at all. “What’s wrong, Hermione?”

“You’ve known that they’ve been here all this time?”

“Er—yes?”

“You’ve known that Hogwarts uses them as slaves?”

Darcy laughs out loud, but Hermione scowls for a moment before rearranging her features into a more pleasant expression. “They aren’t slaves, Hermione.”

“They aren’t paid!”

“What would a house-elf even spend money on?” Darcy asks, catching sight of Carla making her way down the marble staircase with her friends. She turns back to Hermione. “Anyway, they’re treated well and they’re given a roof over their heads—a place to sleep. And they aren’t used the way the Malfoys’ used Dobby—no one is hurting them—”

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!”

“Speak of the devil,” Darcy mutters, as Draco Malfoy and his two usual goons push past the queuing students waiting for dinner. In his hands is the day’s copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , a broad smile on his pointed face, his eyes alight with malice.

“You dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” Malfoy shouts, drawing the attention of everyone around them. Darcy swallows as Carla reaches her side, and Ron frowns as Malfoy shoves the paper into his hands. “Couldn’t even get his name right!” He continues to smile, ignoring Darcy completely, giving Ron time to read the article in its entirety, by which time Ron’s ears and the back of his neck are bright red. “I like the picture, Weasley. Is that really what you live in? Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, too, couldn’t she?”

Harry starts to speak, his voice dangerous, and Carla tries to talk over him. Darcy snatched the newspaper out of Ron’s hands. “That’s enough,” she hisses, her cheeks turning pink. Darcy puts one hand on Harry’s shoulder and the other on Ron’s, turning them away from Malfoy.

“What are you going to do?” Malfoy continues to jeer, even with their backs turned. “Give me a detention? Do you even have the authority? We all know the real reason you’re here—Potter needs his mummy nearby, isn’t that right? Can’t go anywhere without his big sister around to tuck him into bed—”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Carla calls from behind them, her hand deep in her robes pockets, probably fingering the handle of her wand. “You’re just angry that your parents have never shown you any love—”

“What do you know about my parents?”

“We all know who and _what_ your parents are,” Carla hisses, shrugging her shoulders.

Malfoy sneers, looking back at Harry. “At least my parents are still alive.”

Harry tears himself away from Darcy, lunging at Malfoy, his wand outstretched and aimed at Malfoy’s chest, but Ron catches him before anything happens. Darcy doesn’t punish Malfoy despite how badly she wants to, not sure if she does have the authority to give detentions. Trying to keep herself composed and dignified, Darcy snatches at Harry’s robes, pulling him back. “Leave him, Harry. He isn’t worth it.” Harry seems to grudgingly agree, turning his back on Malfoy and making to walk away with his sister.

_BANG_!

A jet of white light flashes past Darcy’s face, very close to Harry’s. She lets go of Harry immediately, and both she and her brother ready their wands again. Malfoy’s spell had missed them by inches, yet before either of them can do anything, there’s another loud _BANG_! and Darcy jumps, spinning around and searching for the source of the noise. Expecting it to be Carla, Darcy glances over her shoulder, but Carla’s wand is at her side, and her left hand is covering her mouth in shock, her brown eyes wide as dinner plates.

“Oh no you don’t, laddie!”

The voice is unfamiliar to Darcy, and she, Carla, and Harry all turn to face the marble staircase; Mad-Eye Moody is stumping down the stairs, his wand held high in the air. The entire crowd goes silent, and when Darcy looks back to Malfoy, she shrieks. Malfoy isn’t standing there anymore—instead, Moody is pointing his wand at a white ferret, squirming on the ground and squeaking in fear. For a brief moment, Darcy is reminded of Peter Pettigrew, squealing like a pig about to be slaughtered in the Shrieking Shack, and she takes a few steps backwards, disgusted and terrified.

When the ferret tries to crawl away between Crabbe’s feet, Moody lifts his wand, jeering. “I don’t think so!” Malfoy rises high in the air, a few feet above Darcy, and Moody forces him to crash to the ground. Darcy and Carla scream each time the ferret bounces off the stone floor, afraid that Malfoy will break every bone in his body—afraid that Moody will let the ferret fall freely and crush itself. “I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back is turned! A cowardly thing to do!”

The ferret rises again, thrashing in midair, squeaking frantically. Moody lets him fall, bounces him off the floor—Darcy shrieks once more—and shoots him in the air again. “Stop!” Darcy shouts, but only Moody’s electric blue eye acknowledges her. A great wave of dislike for Moody and wariness overcomes her as she continues to shout him down. “Please, stop! Turn him right!” But Moody doesn’t oblige—Darcy points her wand at Malfoy, but someone’s hand closes around her wrist and lowers it.

“Professor Moody!”

Professor McGonagall’s long, thin fingers release Darcy’s wrist. Her nostrils are flared, her eyebrows pinched together, her face white. Darcy, from experience, knows this is a bad thing, and she takes a step back. Moody looks over at McGonagall, his face stony, and Malfoy falls back to the ground with a sickening crunch. Professor McGonagall flicks her wand and in less than a second, Draco Malfoy is back the way he was—hair a little messy, a horrified and painful look on his face.

McGonagall looks angrier than Darcy has ever seen her—angrier than when she’d caught Darcy mid-cigarette with a glass of whiskey in her hand a few years ago, and Darcy had been truly scared of her then. “We _never_ use Transfiguration as a punishment,” she says curtly, tucking her wand safely in her robes. “Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?”

Moody clears his throat, unabashed. “He might have mentioned it.”

“Detentions will do—or you may speak to their Head of House,” McGonagall finishes, her lips pursed tight.

“I’ll do that, then,” Moody growls, grabbing Malfoy by the arm. The crowd begins to scatter at the scathing look McGonagall gives them all, and before Moody leaves, Darcy sees his magical eye flick from Harry to Darcy. Professor McGonagall stands at Darcy’s side, unflinching. “The Potter siblings, eh? Let me have a look at you, then.”

Darcy and Harry exchange a nervous glance before looking Moody in the face again. His blue eye travels from Darcy’s head to her feet, and then he does the same to Harry, his regular eye narrowed.

“Just like your parents, aren’t you?” Moody asks them, but neither Darcy nor Harry answer.

“I think they’re quite aware of the resemblance. Don’t you two have somewhere to be?” McGonagall asks them, eyes widening.

“Yes, Professor,” they say at the same time. Harry takes off into the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione on his heels; Darcy grabs Carla by the hand and drags her back up the marble staircase, wanting to put as much distance between herself and Moody.

Once she and Carla reach the safety of the first landing, Darcy lets go of her hand and they slow their pace. Darcy’s heart is racing, and she craves the comfort of her own room. “He’s insane,” Darcy says breathlessly, climbing another flight of stairs. “He’s insane—what _was_ that?”

“I had his class after lunch today,” Carla answers, looking shaken as they approach the portrait that conceals Darcy’s apartment. “You know how he started? He started by talking about Harry, and the way Death Eaters would torture people, and—it was terrible. Fred and George had his class before me and said he was the same way.”

Darcy gives the password and holds the portrait open for Carla to climb through. Their dinner is already sitting on the table, steaming hot, making Darcy salivate and her stomach roar. “What did he say about Harry? Why would he do that?”

“He was just trying to scare everyone I think,” Carla sighs. “About how Harry is the only person to have survived the Killing Curse.”

“So he’s not a Professor Lupin, then?”

“About the farthest thing from another Professor Lupin. I’d kill to have him back.”

“Me too.”

“Nice digs, Darcy.”

“Thanks.” They seat themselves at the table, starting on their dinner, eating in silence for a few minutes. It’s strange, eating with Carla, considering they’d been in different Houses and never spent much time together at meals. “How’s Gemma?”

“Back at work,” Carla says, a cheek full of sweet potato, making her look like a chipmunk. “Mum and dad know who her parents are—they let her stay at our place until I came back here.”

Darcy doesn’t dwell too much on Gemma, knowing she’ll be meeting up with her soon. The last thing she needs are more things to worry about, but Darcy’s heart aches for Gemma and Emily, both of whom were not doing well at the end of the summer. Darcy feels guilty, feeling she should have done more to help her friends instead of running back to Lupin, but surely they won’t hold that against her? It’s not like Darcy could have had either of them stay with her at Privet Drive, or drag her friends to Lupin’s for safekeeping.

Both she and Carla make small talk for a little while, laughing and joking, reminiscing and missing their old friends. Darcy appreciates Carla’s ability to make her laugh, appreciates the habits and mannerisms that she’s picked up from years at Gemma’s side. Finally, Carla reaches the subject of the Triwizard Tournament, and Darcy sighs contently, pushing her empty plate away and leaning back in her chair, balancing on two legs. Carla laughs out loud when Darcy admits she’d known about the Tournament for so long, impressed that she’d been able to keep such a big secret.

“I’m going to enter.”

Darcy slams all four legs of her chair back on the ground. “What are you talking about? No, you’re not.”

Carla blinks in surprise. “What are _you_ talking about?” she asks sharply. “You don’t think I could win. I’m more than capable, and it sounds fun.”

“No—no! That’s not it—I mean, you could win,” Darcy says quickly, smiling weakly at her. “Its just—people have died and—”

“You worry too much.”

“Carla, no—I—” Darcy sighs heavily, exasperated. “It’s dangerous.”

“That’s half the fun of it.” Carla gives a forced laugh. “Darcy, no offense, but you sound like Emily. I’m of age, and I’m entering. I mean—glory, riches—what isn’t exciting about it? Besides, Hufflepuff is due for some glory if you ask me, and who better than to represent my House?”

_Pain. Danger. Suffering. Potentially losing a friend._ Darcy can’t bring herself to say these things, however. Carla’s eyes are bright with excitement, reminding Darcy of the manic gleam in Oliver Wood’s eyes when talking about Quidditch.

“Come on, don’t act like you don’t enjoy your little adventures,” Carla scoffs. “You know if this would have happened last year, you, Emily, and Gemma would have been the first people to enter.”

Darcy isn’t sure that’s necessarily true. Gemma likely would have done it—Darcy’s sure about that. Gemma probably would have tried to convince Emily, and Emily—ever competitive—likely would have joined, as well. And Darcy can hear Emily’s voice in her head, as if she’s standing right beside her: _Come on, Darcy, it’ll be fun!_ Darcy wants to believe that she wouldn’t have entered the Triwizard Tournament if she was able—she wants to believe she’d see the danger and allow someone else to have the glory. But for Carla to assume that Darcy’s enjoyed every other dangerous thing she’s done angers her. How could Carla think that? How could Carla truly believe looking a young Tom Riddle in the face was exciting? _Fun_? Carla wouldn’t have made it five minutes into the Chamber of Secrets—she wouldn’t have thought the adventures were so fun if she had tagged along, if she had been forced to come face to face with giant spiders, with three headed dogs. And Darcy, enraged by Carla’s presumption, finds herself unable to hold her tongue any longer.

“Is that what you think?” Darcy scowls. Carla frowns at her, almost looking prepared for an outburst. “I didn’t sign up for those adventures, Carla. I didn’t volunteer for that, nor did I do it for a taste of glory. I did it because my brother was in danger and I wasn’t going to let him go it alone.”

“All right, I’m sorry.”

Darcy stands up and paces around her sitting room, glancing up at the pictures propped against the wall above the fireplace.

“What are you so afraid of, Darcy?”

Darcy whirls around to face Carla, still sitting at the small table. There are so many things she’s afraid of—losing people she cares about, another war, being abandoned by those she loves. Her fears make her feel weak—not worthy to be a Gryffindor, nothing like her parents—her brave, brave parents who had sacrificed everything for their children without hesitation.

“It’s just a game,” Carla whispers, her tone gentler and reassuring. “No one is going to die.”

“It’s not just a game—it’s not just the Triwizard Tournament. You were there, Carla, you saw what those Death Eaters did. You know what happened to Emily’s mum.” Darcy runs a hand through her hair. “Who’s next? Emily? Me? You?”

Carla gets to her feet, attempting to flatten her hair, but it refuses to lie flat. Her curls spring up around her head, making her look like an angel with a halo of dark ringlets. Darcy has always seen Carla as rather soft—a girl who frightens easy, who feels other people’s pain as her own, who worries about her friends too much. And when she speaks, her voice is soft, too—it’s not commanding like Emily’s or laced with sarcasm like Gemma’s. It’s reassuring and comforting, and it slowly deflates Darcy as her heart hammers inside her chest.

“Why can’t you just enjoy things?” Carla asks, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. She smiles incredulously, taking a few steps towards Darcy. “You’re graduated, living at Hogwarts again—you’re in love, you’re free! And all you can do is worry about the next thing, and the next thing, and whatever comes after that. You need to stop and appreciate what you have now—”

“Before I lose it all?” Darcy retorts. “It’s good to be prepared.”

“Of course it is,” Carla says. “But you can only prepare so much. How could you have possibly prepared for anything you’ve witnessed? Anything you’ve done? You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you keep worrying.”

Darcy swallows. “I already am. I’m paranoid, Carla—something is going to go wrong, I just know it—”

“Darcy,” Carla interrupts in a hushed voice, holding out a hand as if to calm a wild animal. “Stop.”

But Carla’s interruption only makes Darcy furious. She clenches her fists, her face darkening. “You don’t get it, do you? You think Dumbledore would have brought me back here if he didn’t expect trouble? You think there won’t be more attacks like there were at the Quidditch World Cup? You think Dumbledore brought Mad-Eye Moody to teach you because he’s a decent guy?” Darcy rubs her face with her palms, turning her back on Carla to look at the picture of herself and Harry, smiling and waving from the photograph. “I’ve always had to worry—I’ve always had to focus on the future, on keeping Harry safe—you don’t understand the stakes!”

“I understand the stakes well enough!” Carla squeaks, her hair bouncing again as she takes an angry step forward. “Don’t think I’m indifferent to your suffering, and to Emily’s—and to whatever keeps Gemma awake at night! Don’t think I don’t feel for you—that I don’t know what it means to be close to you!”

Carla’s words calm Darcy. To have that reassurance—the validation—that her pain is real, and felt by someone other than herself, is a massive relief, and her heart swells with love for Carla. To know that Carla does understand what it means to be close to a Potter, yet chooses to love her anyway—

“I worshipped you and Emily from the moment you started talking to me,” Carla admits, her cheeks flushing. “You were Darcy Potter—you were cool, pretty—” she averts her eyes, looking down at the floor. “I wanted to be you, and now I just feel bad for you.”

“Wh—what?”

“I believe there’s a war coming,” Carla answers, looking back up into Darcy’s eyes. “I believe it’s coming, maybe not for years—maybe tomorrow—but I know it. And I know how this might end. Emily’s mum was the first, and she won’t be the last.”

Darcy frowns, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, whether from anger, shame, or humiliation, she isn’t sure.

“I’m going to enjoy life before I can’t anymore. I could die tomorrow, and I want to know that I didn’t waste my time worrying about the future.” Carla moves back to the table, her demeanor much calmer, and she picks up her schoolbag and heaves it onto her shoulder. “That’s why I want to enter the Triwizard Tournament. I can, and I will.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say, only sits there in stunned silence.

As Carla heads towards the door, she surprises Darcy even further by flashing her a beautiful, charming smile. “So, I’m thinking—dinner once a week?”

It takes Darcy a moment to respond. “Yeah—sure, of course.”

Carla shrugs playfully. “I kinda got the idea from you and Lupin.”

This makes Darcy laugh, a strange sound when not forced. “Yeah,” she chuckles.

“You could help me with my Potions homework.”

“Sorry—Lupin never helped me with my Defense homework,” Darcy smiles a small smile. “I think that may be breaching some kind of teacher-student code or something. One-on-one teaching sessions are highly discouraged, I believe, especially ones held inside a teacher’s own living space.”

“We all know what was really going on during your one-on-one teaching sessions,” Carla teases. “Certainly nothing Defense related.” Her eyes flick to the mantelpiece, at the still photo of her and Lupin. “Cute picture, Darcy. Goodnight.”

Darcy lays in bed for a long time that night, the stillness and quiet of the room like a crushing weight on her chest. The darkness blankets her, isolates her until the only thing that’s left with her are her thoughts. Moonlight spills through the lone window above her bed, making her think of Lupin—of how badly she wants to love him, to kiss him, to have him hold her, to remind her that there are still good things in the world, good things that she has now—that she may not have in the future.

She thinks of Emily, how the death of her mother had happened so suddenly, how Emily was taken away from her mother’s body and brought home by a stranger and Darcy, sobbing and shaking. They hadn’t had time to prepare—hadn’t had time to say goodbye— _did Emily watch her mother die? Or did she just find her like that?_

Carla had always fretted over Darcy, not to the extent that Emily did, but she worried. But she had always been impervious to the perils of her future—Carla had never fussed much over a career path, had never worried much about life after Hogwarts, big picture things. Darcy knows Carla’s stressors—homework, Herbology, non-verbal spells. Little things, things that won’t matter later. Things that matter to her _now_ , in the present.

How wonderful it would be to be able to live in the moment, to not worry about things that could happen ten years from now. Darcy tries to imagine her future, tries to imagine a life where she’s married, has children, a loving husband—a husband with brown and gray hair, a patchy beard on his face, mischievous eyes…

But it’s hard to picture that life. Suffering and pain and sadness and guilt are the only things she imagines—a future where she’s alone, broken, thrown into a war she never wanted to be apart of.

_Carla knows it, and so do I._

She knows that when the war comes, Darcy will not be apart of the war the way Emily will be—the way Lupin will be. She will be at the forefront with her brother—an instrumental piece in the war that Darcy can’t quite explain yet. All she knows is that each year Harry has been at Hogwarts has proved that Voldemort will not rest until Harry is dead.

And Darcy knows that she will not rest until Harry is safe, even if that means sacrifice.

_I am my mother’s daughter._

Darcy rolls over in bed and closes her eyes, reaching out instinctively for a warm hand to hold, for a body in bed beside her. She clutches at the sheet, sighing. For a moment, she thinks of walking straight down to Hogsmeade, of Apparating in the field that surrounds Lupin’s cottage. But the idea of running into someone’s arms, of needing someone to hold her, makes her feel weak and ashamed of herself.

_Snape was wrong. I don’t need someone to hold my hand to be a Gryffindor._

But it would be nice.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Max arrives at breakfast the following morning carrying a letter from Emily.

_Darcy,_

_I’m glad you liked it—it took me a long time to write. Dad loved it. Framed it and everything._

_I don’t think dad’s even showered since Mum died. He hasn’t gone to work and he always smells like cigarettes and booze. We got a decent settlement from Mum, plus what was left in her vault, so I’m not too worried about anything just yet, but if dad doesn’t shape up soon, I’m afraid we’ll lose the house._

_I’ll let you know when I can get away from work. I hope all is well at Hogwarts. Give Harry my best._

_Love,_

_Emily_

Darcy folds the letter back up and sticks it into her pocket. The idea of Emily’s father succumbing to a severe depression due to the loss of his wife makes Darcy uneasy, partially because she still feels that it’s her fault. Maybe she’d feel better if she could just tell him that—apologize to Mr. Duncan for not being able to save his wife—apologize for not confiding in someone her suspicions. She wonders if it would give Mr. Duncan some form of closure, if it would give her some form of closure—to finally admit the secret she’s been carrying, to relieve herself of the weight of the world upon her shoulders, or some of it, anyway. Or would Mr. Duncan shift the blame onto Darcy? That’s what Darcy would do—it’s far easier to blame someone else who’s _willing_ to accept that blame.

Snape seems on edge today, snapping at young students who make the simplest mistakes, leaving Darcy to clean up after him by muttering apologies and helping students understand the material and how to fix their mistakes. Snape watches her, scowling, his eyebrows furrowed, his black eyes following her around the classroom, talking in low voices to the students, making them smile and laugh nervously.

By lunchtime, Snape is on edge—growling retorts at Darcy as she cleans up the classroom, trying to hit her where it hurts. He brings up Sirius, sneering at the idea that he might have been captured again (“When was the last time you even heard from him?”), and while it stings, Darcy ignores it. She knows if Sirius had been captured, it definitely would have been on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Snape keeps going, however, finally reaching the subject of Lupin, a twisted smile forming on his face. “What’s the job market like for a werewolf these days?”

“What does it matter to you?” Darcy asks quickly, her back facing him. “He’d still have a job here if you hadn’t been in such a vindictive mood that day.”

“Would he?”

“Of course he would,” Darcy answers firmly, turning around to face Snape again, her hands full of leftover ingredients. Glancing at him, she walks over to the store cupboard and begins to organize the ingredients into small drawers and boxes inside the cupboard. “He was the best teacher we’ve ever had.”

“You don’t think your opinion of him is—biased?”

“Why are you so hateful?” Darcy snaps, anger overwhelming her again. All of her hatred for Snape comes back again, and she remembers all of the things they’d said to each other only a few months prior. “He’s a good man, and he takes care of me. Unlike you, who won’t miss an opportunity to insult a student—or me.”

“A good man?” Snape hisses. “A dangerous creature. One that attacked you—”

“You know the circumstances! You know he would never hurt me on purpose! He didn’t all those times we were together.”

“Right,” Snape replies, scrunching his hooked nose. “He may not have hurt you, but he still thought it would be a good idea to spend time with a student of his behind closed doors—”

“It wasn’t like that.” Darcy doesn’t know why she says it, because she’s quite aware it was _very_ much like that. She lowers her voice and feels a blush creep up her neck. “He’s sweet to me.”

There’s thumping outside the classroom door, and Snape stops talking immediately. Darcy’s heart quickens—not due to her anger towards Snape, but because she knows who is about to walk in, simply by the clunking sound as the footsteps draw nearer. Darcy hesitates, taking a few steps back towards Snape’s desk, and they both watch Mad-Eye Moody enter the classroom. She looks to Snape, noticing that his face has fallen, and when he sees her eyes on his face, he arranges his features into a scowl.

“Darcy Potter,” he says gruffly, and when he takes another step forward, Darcy takes another quick step back, standing at Snape’s side. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time, and I don’t think I made a good first impression.”

Dark wizard catcher or not, there’s something about Moody that sends shivers down Darcy’s spine. Especially to come into Snape’s classroom, to come find her only to tell her this—it’s ominous, foreboding, and Darcy reaches out instinctively to grab at Snape’s arm, forgetting momentarily that it’s Snape beside her—Snape, who she hates with all her heart. Her fingers only brush against his black cloak, but Snape notices and gives his arm a shake. “You wanted to meet me?” she asks.

“Me and half the country,” Moody replies with a harsh, barking laugh. He approaches the desk—him on one side, with Darcy and Snape on the other. With both mismatched eyes, he looks her up and down, and Darcy impulsively crosses her arms over her chest, his magical eye making her feel naked and exposed. “Thought you, of all people, would be after a more exciting job.”

“I’m happy where I am,” Darcy replies. “I’ve had enough excitement in my life.”

“I’m sure you have,” Moody says. His normal eye flicks to Snape, but his magical one stays fixed on Darcy’s face. He doesn’t speak again until both eyes are upon Darcy. “You were what—four? Five, when it happened? You must remember everything.”

Darcy doesn’t feel much like confiding in Moody the source of her nightmares. She gives him the same answer she’d given all those who had asked when she first came to Hogwarts. “No,” she says, trying to sound confident about it. “I don’t remember anything.”

“Nothing, eh? You didn’t see his face?”

 _Yes. I looked into Voldemort’s face when I was only five-years-old_. “No.” But even as she says it, Darcy remembers the look of him—of the pale, snakelike face, of the gleaming eyes that flashed red. “No, I don’t remember what his face looked like.”

She and Moody look at each other for a long minute, and then Snape puts a hand on her shoulder—her scarred shoulder—and pushes her slightly roughly past Moody. “Darcy—come,” he commands, moving past her towards the open classroom door. “Lunch.”

Darcy obeys without question, taking a few long strides towards the exit, following Snape hurriedly down the corridor towards the Great Hall. She isn’t sure if Moody’s magical eye can see through walls, but Darcy feels that he’s still watching her. She tries to appear unbothered as she follows Snape up to the entrance hall. Darcy can feel Snape’s eyes staring at her face every couple of seconds, however, and is glad when he finally speaks. “You really don’t remember anything?” he asks, sounding mildly curious.

“Of course I remember,” Darcy snaps, looking into his black eyes. “You think that memory doesn’t invade my dreams? You think I’ve forgotten what Voldemort looked like? Or the look on my mother’s face when she died? Could _you_ ever forget something like that?”

They look at each other for a long time, a sign that Snape isn’t going to press the issue any further. But Darcy isn’t being entirely truthful—she’d forgotten for a few years. Maybe not forgotten, but hidden away, tucked the memory in a place where she couldn’t see it any longer.

Truthfully, it had started at Privet Drive with Petunia. Darcy, only a young girl, had complained about nightmares—complained about seeing her mother killed over and over, had begged to see a doctor, or someone who could stop them coming. But Petunia had only ever gone white as a ghost and insisted that Lily and James weren’t murdered—they were killed in a car accident. Darcy had known it was a lie, had known what she remembered, but Petunia’s confidence in her story had given Darcy doubts over the next couple of months. _You’re not remembering right_ , Petunia had said, _That’s not what happened, stupid girl_. And Darcy had repeated Petunia’s story to herself over and over again, had repeated it to Harry when he was a young child. And eventually, she truly believed it. And upon returning to school, she denied and denied the whispers and insistences that Voldemort had killed Lily and James— _I don’t remember. I was too little. I don’t remember anything. They weren’t there—how could they know?_

When Hagrid had tracked them down on Harry’s eleventh birthday, Harry had been heartbroken by the fact that Darcy had lied to him. Petunia had, surprisingly, taken the blame—telling Harry the truth before Darcy could speak, insisting that she had forced Darcy to repeat that story. For months afterwards, Darcy had tried to convince herself again that Hagrid was lying, just like those kids at school.

As a teenager, it was easier to just push the true memories aside. Darcy had found friends to distract her, had learned to love the feeling of being intoxicated—loved the burn of alcohol down her throat, the numbing powers it had. Darcy had been introduced to Madam Pomfrey’s wonderful Sleeping Draughts that gave her dreamless sleep, and smoked cigarettes after curfew while laughing and splashing in the lake, and those things had temporarily filled the gaping hole in her heart left by the loss of her parents.

What she wouldn’t give to believe her parents had died in a car accident again. To not dream of the real thing so many nights—to be able to sleep through every night without waking in a cold sweat, trembling and breathless and alone.

“Why would he ask me that?” Darcy whispers, as if Moody is still listening in.

“He won’t again.”

Darcy looks up at Snape quickly. “Thank you.”

Instead of eating at Snape’s side, having to suffer through Moody’s staring, Darcy convinces Carla to eat with her in the courtyard. Darcy relays to her the interaction between she and Moody, and Carla listens carefully, her eyebrows knitted together.

“That is weird,” Carla agrees. “But he’s a weird guy, isn’t he?”

“He came down to Snape’s classroom to ask if I remember what Voldemort looked like,” Darcy continues, ignoring Carla’s shudder at the sound of the sound. “As if I’d tell him anything after seeing him torture Malfoy!”

“Darcy, look at him. He’s seriously deranged after years of hunting Dark Wizards.” Carla shoves her fork into her mouth, chewing slowly, watching Darcy narrow her eyes. Swallowing, Carla continues with a small smile. “My dad says that Mad-Eye Moody sees danger everywhere he goes. He doesn’t even drink from anything other than his own flask. He thinks people are out to get him. Off his rocker, he says.”

“Then why did Dumbledore hire him?” Darcy asks. “So far, he’s scared nearly every student in this school, turned Malfoy into a ferret and nearly killed him, and now he’s just coming up and asking me whatever questions he wants with no regard at all to my feelings?”

Carla chuckles, shrugging her shoulders. “I think Snape’s right. There probably wasn’t a large pool to choose from. I mean, think about it,” she answers. “How many teachers have we been through? And considering the fact that Quirrel died—”

“—he deserved it—he had Voldemort on the back of his head—”

“—Lockhart hasn’t a clue who he is anymore—”

“—also deserved it—he tried to wipe our memories—”

“—and Lupin was outed as a werewolf. With a track record like that, not many people are bound to be jumping for the job, are they?”

Darcy can’t think of an argument. “I guess you’re right. But that doesn’t change the fact that I think he’s out of his goddamn mind.”

“At least you don’t have to attend his classes.”

After lunch, Darcy returns to the dungeon classroom with Snape, eager to see Harry. He, Hermione, and Ron are the first ones to the classroom. Harry grabs onto Darcy’s sleeve, jerking her away from Snape and looking at her very seriously. “Remember—you promised to keep him in line.”

“Did I?” Darcy laughs softly.

But Snape doesn’t pay Harry too much attention. He introduces Darcy as his assistant with a bored tone and Darcy receives a hearty welcome from the Gryffindors—Neville Longbottom in particular looks ecstatic to have her in the room with them—a student who has never excelled in Potions (and according to Hermione, is usually the subject of Snape’s taunts). The Slytherins that take the class with them—including one Draco Malfoy—are not so enthusiastic and sneer at her. Darcy frowns, wondering how Slytherin House could produce such wonderful people such as Gemma, and at the same time, such terrible ones. Snape silences the class’s applause with a single look and moves on quickly, giving the directions on how to properly brew the day’s Potion and setting them to work.

Neville is, as Hermione had told her, almost a disaster. Darcy feels sorry for him when he melts his cauldron, and Darcy rushes over to him as his cheeks turn bright pink. She helps him clean up, provides him with a new cauldron, and offers him a smile. She can feel Snape’s eyes on the back of her head and whispers to Neville, “If you need help, just ask me. I don’t think Snape will be able to hold back if you melt another cauldron.”

His cheeks turn pinker, and Darcy slumps her shoulders, not having meant to embarrass him. She pats his shoulder and looks across the table at Hermione, sharing a knowing look with her.

“Hey, Darcy! Or is it—Professor Potter now?”

Darcy turns and finds Malfoy smiling innocently up at her from his seat across the room. Even while whispering, Malfoy’s voice carries and Darcy raises an eyebrow at him. “Darcy’s fine, Draco. What do you want?” she asks, wanting to hurl some type of ferret related insult at him, but she can’t imagine Dumbledore would be too happy about her bullying students.

“Is it true?” he asks again, his face lighting up.

Darcy looks back at Harry, hoping he’ll have an answer for her. But Harry only shrugs, giving Malfoy a dirty look. “Is what true?” Darcy says.

Malfoy laughs. “You and the werewolf?”

Darcy’s entire face floods with color as nearly everyone in the classroom stops what they’re doing. Harry, Ron, and Hermione make a noble attempt at ignoring the conversation, but Darcy knows all the students are listening carefully, only acting very interested in their cauldrons and fingernails and the blackboard. Neville melts his second cauldron, looking up at Darcy with a very desperate, strained, and humiliated expression.

Helping Neville clean up the mess again, Darcy answers, “I don’t think it’s any of your business.” She glances up at Hermione again, who nods encouragingly, as if it’s the right thing to say. “Where did you hear that, anyway?”

Malfoy chuckles, and his friends, Crabbe and Goyle, laugh with him. “My father heard it from Rita Skeeter.” Darcy scowls at the mention of her name, keeping herself from turning around to face him. She continues to assist Neville as Snape skulks around the classroom, eyes following Darcy. “I have to be honest, I didn’t think you’d end up marrying into a good family, but I expected you to do better than a werewolf.”

“Ignore him,” Neville squeaks in her ear, making her jump. Darcy nods. “Professor Lupin was nice to me.”

This makes Darcy smile.

“I hope Dumbledore at least gave him some money to buy new clothes, at least,” Malfoy hisses. “Must be humiliating walking around with someone who doesn’t even own a shirt that hasn’t been patched.”

“Stop it,” Darcy says suddenly, spinning on her heel and facing Malfoy. He seems to be enjoying it, not at all worried about Snape. Fury rises in her—while Malfoy keeps his voice down, she knows that Snape can still hear the conversation—he must hear it. Yet he does nothing, says nothing. “You’re being very rude.”

Malfoy only laughs harder, looking to his friends before continuing. “Does kissing him remind you of your daddy, Darcy? Is that why—”

“Enough, Draco.”

Darcy jumps, not having realized Snape is right behind her. At the sound of his voice, she straightens up and turns to look at him and Malfoy, who has quieted immediately. Snape walks away as if he’s said nothing, and Darcy looks at Harry. He looks back apologetically and returns to his cauldron. The rest of the class is quiet, except for a few whisperings here and there.

When Neville melts his sixth cauldron, Darcy apologizes under her breath when Snape gives him detention.

* * *

“That little git! He should be nicer to you after you tried to get Moody to stop killing him—” Ron pauses, lost in thought as Darcy closes the door of her apartment closed behind him. “God, I hope I never forget that. One of the best moments of my life. That and when Hermione hit him last year—remember?” He looks to Harry with a brilliant smile. “Just give him detention, Darcy, and get it over with.”

“If I try to give him one and actually don’t have the authority, I’m going to look like a right fool.”

Ron flops onto the sofa, putting his feet on the coffee table. He closes his eyes and puts his hands behind his head. “Don’t listen to him. You know, I heard dad talking about Lupin the other day—”

“Your dad showed up at his house while I was there,” Darcy shoots back, and Ron laughs. “After the Quidditch World Cup.”

“He didn’t tell us that!” Ron answers, sitting up in the sofa and making room for both Harry and Darcy. “Why’d he do that?”

“Trying to bring me back to your place,” Darcy says sheepishly, looking at Harry for a split second and blushing furiously. She decides not to tell them that Mr. Weasley had chastised her in his modest office at the Ministry about Lupin, not wanting to embarrass herself further.

“Why didn’t he?” Harry asks finally. “We were worried about you when you didn’t come back the rest of the week.”

“Come on, Harry,” Darcy answers, waving an inpatient hand at him across Ron. “You should have known I’d be safe with Remus.”

“I know—I’m not—I’m just—” Harry clears his throat, trying to avoid looking Ron in the eye. “I’m just not used to you being off with—you know…”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about me ever,” Darcy says again with a small smile. “Especially when I’m with Remus.”

The three of them are quiet for a few moments, listening to the crackling of the fire. Then Harry turns back to look at his sister, and he chews on the inside of his cheek. “How’s Emily? Is she all right?” he asks gently.

“She’s worried about her dad.” Darcy digs around in her pocket and withdraws the letter from Emily, unfolding it and handing it to Harry. Ron reads it over his shoulder and Darcy stands up and walks over to the bookshelf beside the fireplace, picking up the torn obituary and giving it to Harry after he’s finished with the letter. “I should go see her, shouldn’t I? I went to the funeral, but I didn’t talk to her much.”

“Maybe giving her some space is the best thing for her,” Harry suggests. “She and her dad need to get through this together.”

Darcy nods in approval, but decides that she’ll ask Lupin for his opinion when she sees him again.

The rest of the week goes smoothly. Snape gives a sixth year Ravenclaw girl a detention after she draws a crude picture of Darcy and he catches it. Darcy continues to avoid Moody as much as possible. All the while, talk of the Triwizard Tournament fills the corridors between classes and meal times, even the topic of hushed conversations during classes. It isn’t until Thursday night, around 11:30, that something exciting happens.

Darcy is just making to leave her room, to go wander around the castle corridors (something that is still exciting to her—not having a curfew), unsure of how to spend her free time now that she doesn’t have homework to fret over, when someone hisses her name just outside the entrance and something forces her back into the room. As soon as the portrait hole swings shut, Harry tears the Invisibility Cloak off him and brandishes a piece of parchment in his hand.

“Harry,” Darcy says breathlessly, her heart beginning to race. Harry leaps to the sofa and urges her to follow him. “What’s wrong? Who’s that from? What’s happened?”

“It’s Sirius,” Harry replies, and Darcy’s heart sinks. Something on her face must show her fear, for Harry adds quickly, “No—he’s not—he’s okay! Look.”

He shoves the paper into Darcy’s hands and she murmurs it outloud to herself, skimming it over. “‘I’m flying north immediately… Dumbledore’s got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means he’s reading the signs…’ But he mustn’t! He’ll get caught!” She jumps to her feet, still clutching Sirius’s letter in her fist, pacing in front of the fire. “He can’t come back. I’ll tell him. I’ll have Remus tell him. He can’t come back.”

But if Darcy’s being honest, part of her is excited by this news. The chance to see Sirius again, to tell him everything that’s been bothering her, to get everything off her chest. Had he heard about the Quidditch World Cup? Had he heard about the death of Emily’s mother? Darcy craves his presence suddenly, needing to talk to him, needing to be held by him. But on the other hand, the other part of her is fearful. Coming back north will mean possibly being carted back to Azkaban, killed, or worse—subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss. Darcy shudders terribly, giving the letter back to Harry.

“I shouldn’t have told him,” Harry says suddenly, running his hand through his dark hair and messing it up. Darcy looks endearingly at him, at the hair that sticks up at the back no matter what. “He thinks I’m in trouble.”

But the part Darcy focuses the most on is his vague and ominous observation about Dumbledore and Mad-Eye. _So I was right—Dumbledore suspects trouble_. She remembers what Dumbledore had told her about the Dark Mark being spotted, about how it troubled him. She needs to have this conversation with Sirius—to get his take on things. What signs? Darcy wonders. Does Sirius think there’s a war coming? Is that what the Dark Mark meant? That, combined with the return of the Death Eaters and Harry’s strange dream that had caused his scar hurt unsettles her.

“No,” Darcy hums, staring into the fire, her mind racing. She thinks hard, tucking her hair behind her ears. “It’s a good thing you told Sirius.” She spins around to face Harry. “Do you think Voldemort is getting stronger?”

The idea doesn’t frighten her as much as she thought it would. Maybe it’s because she’s with Harry—Harry, from whom she’d always drawn her courage. She isn’t sure, but she knows that Voldemort gaining strength is something that should frighten her much more than Mad-Eye Moody and much more than the prospect of the looming Triwizard Tournament.

“Do you think Sirius and Dumbledore think Voldemort is getting stronger?” she continues, and Harry looks thoughtful, but slightly frustrated. “What signs do you think they’re reading that no one else is?”

“The Dark Mark, for one. It was Voldemort’s sign, wasn’t it?”

Darcy clenches and unclenches her jaw. “When I first arrived, Professor Dumbledore came to see me,” she explains. “He told me—he told me to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary… to keep an eye on you.”

“Me?” Harry repeats, a little affronted. “If Voldemort is growing stronger—I mean, it’s not like Voldemort could storm the castle while Dumbledore’s here, right?”

Darcy hesitates. “No,” she whispers. “I suppose not.” Still deep in thought, Darcy checks her watch. “You should get back to your common room. It’s getting late.”

Harry groans, getting to his feet and wrapping the Invisibility Cloak around him, leaving his head to float in midair. Darcy frowns. “You have to tell him not to come,” Harry pleads. “I’m writing him tomorrow. You have to tell him.”

But Darcy says nothing, only purses her lips in a very Aunt Petunia-like fashion. As Harry’s eyes rove over her face, she looks away from him, but it’s too late.

“You miss him, I know,” Harry says. “But you know what could happen if he comes around again.”

“I know,” she snaps. Tears suddenly well up in Darcy’s eyes as she remembers their meeting back in June—remembers crossing the Shrieking Shack to fall into his chest—remembers begging him to take her with him as Sirius soared away on Buckbeak. _He didn’t look back_. “It’s not fair—I thought he’d be around for good this time.”

Neither of them speak for a few moments as Darcy wipes at the tears that trail down her cheeks.

“I miss mum and dad.”

“Me too.” Harry pauses, taking a few steps towards the door. “You remind me of mum.”

“Thanks, Harry.” She watches him reach for the doorknob. “I love you.”

Harry gives an exasperated sigh and turns around to face his sister once more. “You get one ‘I love you’ for the year. Are you sure you want to use it now?”

Darcy laughs, sniffling. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Harry pulls the Invisibility Cloak back over his head. As the door swings open, his disembodied voice floats over the threshold, filling her ears and making her heart swell with love. “Love you, too.” The door is almost closed when it opens back up again quickly, and Darcy stares at a spot where she thinks Harry’s head likely is. “Oh, and by the way—Hermione’s probably going to track you down tomorrow and ask you to join—well—I suppose she’ll tell you all about it. Just be ready, all right?”

And with that ominous warning, Harry leaves, closing the portrait behind him.

Darcy wakes the next morning groggy and irritable and overtired, snapping at Snape throughout breakfast and hiding behind her newspaper. She had flirted with the idea of writing to Sirius, if only to appease Harry, but the thought of seeing him again—even if only for a moment—beats out her desire to write an angry letter, chiding him, telling him to stay far, far away from them. Aware that it’s risky and reckless and extremely dangerous, Darcy also knows that a letter from her probably won’t change Sirius’s mind about coming north.

To Darcy’s surprise, Hermione does track Darcy down during lunch, a box in her hands that rattles with each step. Hermione approaches her at the staff table as soon as the food appears in front of her, and Hermione smiles up, placing the box down on the table before her. “What is this?” Darcy asks, slowly lowering her fork.

“S.P.E.W.,” Hermione says brightly.

“Spew?” Darcy cocks an eyebrow.

Hermione grumbles something under her breath. “You are just like Harry sometimes, you know that?”

Darcy grins, stuffing a forkful of food in her mouth.

“It’s not spew, it’s S.P.E.W. It stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

“Hermione—what are you doing? What is this? Seriously.”

“The house elves here and enslaved all over the world deserve wages and fair working conditions!” Hermione says shrilly.

Snape clears his throat, waving a lazy hand at Hermione. “Miss Granger—”

Darcy glares at him. “Let her speak.” When she looks back at Hermione, there’s still a defiant look on her face, but it’s clear Snape has made her a bit more reluctant to go on. “Go ahead, Hermione. What is it you want from me?”

“Two Sickels to join, and you get a badge,” Hermione says, shaking the box of badges. “The money can help make leaflets.”

Darcy sighs, swallowing her food. She puts her fork down and rummages in her pocket, pulling out a few Sickels and putting them on the table in front of Hermione. “Go on, then. One for me, and I’ll pay for one for Remus, as well.”

Hermione’s eyes brighten and it makes Darcy smile. Grabbing two badges from the box to give to Darcy, Hermione holds them out. Snape watches the interaction with a mocking expression. Darcy takes the badges, and before Hermione leaves, says, “Wait, Hermione.”

Turning on her heels, Hermione waits.

“Give me another one.” Darcy pulls out two more Sickels and Hermione gives her another badge and a confused look. Darcy holds up the badge for Snape, but he only scowls at her. Resigned to the fact that he’s not going to take it, Darcy takes matters into her own hands, fastening the S.P.E.W. badge onto the front of his robes. Past Snape, at the middle of the table, Dumbledore chuckles while watching on, his blue eyes twinkling. “Looks good. Thanks, Hermione.”

As soon as Hermione starts back down the aisle towards Gryffindor table, Snape tears the badge off. “Don’t you dare make a fool of me, Darcy.”

“Fine, don’t wear the badge—but I paid your two Sickels, so you’re a member whether you like it or not.”

Ron howls with laughter when Hermione tells him and Harry about it outside of Darcy’s quarters that evening, before returning to Gryffindor Tower to freshen up before dinner. Even Hermione smiles sheepishly, and Darcy flushes, shrugging casually.

Darcy and Hagrid share dinner in her own room (Hagrid provides his own chair). He talks mostly about the tournament, asking Darcy about classes and making sure Snape is treating her all right. Thankfully, Hagrid doesn’t bring up Lupin or the Quidditch World Cup—the two things that Darcy was sure he’d want to discuss with her.

Heart and stomach full, Darcy waits for Hagrid to reach his hut before deciding to make the long trek down to Hogsmeade, where she’ll be able to Disapparate and finally arrive at Lupin’s. When the lights come on in Hagrid’s hut, just barely visible through her bedroom window, Darcy throws a jacket on and a bag over her shoulder, stuffed with a few pairs of clothes and Lupin’s new S.P.E.W. badge. Without meeting anyone on the way through the castle, Darcy heads out the front doors, making her way to Hogsmeade.

She intends to Disapparate as soon as she gets there, but the shops seem to call to her—she only visits one, however, buying a bottle of red wine and tucking it in her bag. Placing a firm hand upon it, not wanting to lose it, and within moments—extended, compressed, and uncomfortable though they are—Darcy is greeted with a beautiful sight.

The overgrown weeds and grass surround the cottage, tickling Darcy’s fingers and legs. Lights are on inside, smoke billowing from the chimney. The television is on judging by the reflection on the windows. The sound of her arrival seems to have alerted Lupin to something, because she sees him look out of one the windows, unable to see her.

Feeling fully at home for the first time in a week, Darcy lopes to the front door, her knees weak and her heart feeling considerably light, knowing that Lupin is inside waiting for her.


	16. Chapter 16

Darcy giggles as Lupin uncorks the bottle of wine he’d gotten for her as an early birthday present (the same wine she’d bought for him at Hogsmeade coincidentally). He fills a wine glass for her nearly to the top, and then does the same for himself. They both sit down in front of the fire, the buzz of the television barely audible, turned down to a low volume.

“Oh—grab my bag,” Darcy says, sitting up and pointing to her bag, crumpled on the ground by his feet. “I’ve brought something else for you—from Hermione, paid for by me.”

Lupin reaches for her bag, a sly smile creeping onto his face. “This can’t be good, can it?”

Darcy rummages inside and pulls out the shiny, silver badge. She passes it to him and throws her bag back on the ground. Lupin looks at it warily. “She’s created a new organization. S.P.E.W.”

“Spew?” Lupin asks, taking the badge and turning it over in his hands.

“Don’t call it that to her face.” Darcy smiles at him, taking the badge from his hands and carefully pinning it to his shirt. Lupin looks down at it, raising his eyebrows. Admiring her handiwork, Darcy takes a long drink of wine, savoring it. “She’s trying to secure fair wages and working conditions for house-elves. Next time, I may have a leaflet for you if she uses our donations wisely.”

Lupin looks mildly uncomfortable. “I’m sure Hermione means well, but does she have any idea what she’s getting into?”

“Likely not,” Darcy replies, taking another drink of wine. “But I highly doubt a thirteen-year-old witch will upset the balance with a few Sickels and badges.”

“We are talking about the same Hermione, aren’t we? The same Hermione who upset the balance of time just in June with a Time-Turner?”

“That was different,” Darcy says seriously, glancing from his face to the badge and back. “She’s trying to do a good thing, however misguided her judgement. Just wear the damn badge if you see her, and let her talk your ear off without you interrupting her. Thanks to me, you’re an official member. And who knows? Maybe, with some convincing, Hermione can start up a foundation for werewolves, as well.”

Lupin laughs weakly, looking at her from over the rim of his wine glass. He doesn’t look well, and Darcy hadn’t expected him to—not with the full moon looming so near. It seems he’s gotten a haircut, keeping his hair from falling into his eyes, but it’s still messy and streaked with gray, covering a scar that Darcy knows is on his forehead, just above his right eyebrow. His beard, which had been trimmed and well-cared for the last few times she’s seen him, is now uneven and patchy again, but still kept short. But the bags under his eyes, the heavy eyelids, the lack of color in his face (which she hopes will be restored after a few glasses of wine), make her feel slightly bad. Darcy feels an intruder in his home, feeling that a better decision would have been to leave him alone, to rest and prepare as best he can without her distracting him. But Darcy thinks, if she were in his position, the anxiety of knowing what will happen in a few days time would be nearly impossible to deal with alone—she would welcome Lupin to distract her, to ease her worries.

“You’ve been taking your potion, haven’t you?” she asks him softly.

Lupin nods, scratching at the scruff on his face and dragging his fingers through his hair. “Yes. It’s the last of it.”

“Gemma will get you more.”

“I hope you didn’t just come here to fuss over me?” Lupin teases, refilling his glass and topping Darcy’s off. She blushes when he looks into her face. “Not that I mind, but I thought you’d want to tell me about your first week back at Hogwarts. Far more exciting.”

Darcy frowns at him, but he gives her a warm, reassuring smile, his lips stretched tight. She wants to kiss him now, to love him, to feel the scratch of hair against her mouth, but Darcy desperately wants him to be the one to kiss her first. Looking away to resist temptation, Darcy stares into the fire, unsure of how to begin. “It’s been—good.”

Lupin waits a moment to see if she’ll continue, but she doesn’t. “Are you going to elaborate? Or are you just going to leave it at that?”

“Sorry,” Darcy replies sheepishly, busying herself with her wine. “It’s just—so much has happened and I don’t even know where to start. I wish you could still be there.”

“Don’t apologize, my love,” Lupin says. “Has Severus been treating you fairly?”

Darcy thinks a moment. “Yes,” she answers, feeling that it’s an inadequate response. “He hasn’t been unbearably mean, and he even stopped Draco Malfoy from harassing me on Tuesday. Oh—! And he’s also an official member of S.P.E.W. I bought his badge for him.”

“Was he happy about it?”

“Not particularly,” Darcy grins, sipping at her wine. “But not much makes Snape happy, does it?”

Lupin watches her chuckle, smiling all the while, his eyes never leaving her face. After a moment, the smile fades, and he fingers the rim of his wine glass, narrowing his eyes before speaking. “I’ve heard rumors,” he says quietly, and his tone makes Darcy suddenly very nervous. “Mad-Eye Moody is teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“Yes,” Darcy answers quickly, and at the mention of his name, everything comes tumbling out of her. “And he’s insane! Snape said he was a great Auror, but I don’t care—I don’t like him. You know he turned Draco Malfoy into a ferret? A _ferret_ —and then bounced him everywhere while everyone was watching and I told him to stop, but he didn’t! And then he came down to Snape’s classroom just to come talk to me and to ask me if I remember what Voldemort looked like when mum died—and I don’t like that eye of his! I feel like he’s seeing me naked whenever he looks at me with it and I _don’t_ want him to see me naked.”

Lupin widens his eyes, looking incredulously at Darcy. Infuriatingly, he laughs. And despite the warmth that spreads through her at the sound of his laughter, she can’t help feeling slightly angry at him for not taking her seriously. “Mad-Eye fought with us in the first war. He wasn’t always so… interesting, for lack of a better word, but chasing after Dark Wizards for more than half your life will make a man paranoid. He’s a good man, Darcy, just a little out of place. You’ve only known him a week.”

Darcy shrugs. She wants to believe that Lupin is right, but her irrational fear of Mad-Eye Moody continues to give her doubts. “Sirius is coming north.”

Mid-drink, Lupin coughs, inhaling half of his wine and soaking his shirt with the rest of it. Darcy hurries to fix it, her wand pointed at the red stain growing on his chest when he finally manages to ask, “What?”

Darcy’s wand siphons off the wine. “He’s worried about Harry’s scar hurting. He wrote back Thursday evening. Sirius said that he’s been hearing strange rumors, and mentioned something about Dumbledore reading the signs and that’s why he brought Moody out of retirement.” Darcy finishes off her glass of wine, squirming in her seat and clearing her throat as Lupin refills her cup. “Harry asked if I’d write to him and tell him not to come. I know Harry sent a letter this morning, but I—I couldn’t.”

Lupin inches closer to her, under the pretext of getting more comfortable. His leg brushed against her’s, and Darcy feels as if she’s still a student, flustered at the simplest contact. She drinks more wine, attributing the giddy feeling to being slightly drunk. But the feeling is a good one, and it’s such a relief to be drinking—to be able to push all of her thoughts and anxieties out of her head, even if it’s just for a few hours. Darcy doesn’t expect Lupin to reply, and is surprised when he asks, “You want to see him again?”

She nods slowly. “Of course I do, but I also know what could happen if he comes here. If he gets caught, that’s on us.”

“Listen, I know Sirius,” Lupin tells her, brushing his fingertips across her cheek, pushing some hair out of her face. “And I know that no matter how many letters you send him, no matter how much you plead and beg for him to stay put, if he’s intent on coming north, then there’s no stopping him.”

“I would just hate to see him caught. You know as well as I do what could happen to him.”

“I know it seems risky and reckless,” Lupin assures her. “And believe me, Darcy—I can’t bear the idea of Sirius being subjected to whatever cruel punishments the Ministry has in mind—but Sirius is clever and knows what the consequences are. He’s well aware of what could happen to him.” He gives her a small smile, taking Darcy’s hand gently in his and kissing her knuckles very lightly. “Besides, do you think he would ever miss an opportunity to see you?”

His gentle tone makes Darcy smile in spite of herself. Lupin lowers her hand from his mouth, letting go of her hand. “He thinks there’s a war coming, as well, doesn’t he? That’s what he means by the signs? Evidence that Voldemort is growing stronger? That the Death Eaters are rallying again? Killing again?”

Lupin doesn’t answer, only frowns slightly at her.

“I’m afraid that, if there is a war, we won’t win,” she admits, a feeling she’s been harboring for some time.

He sighs heavily, shaking his head. “Let’s not talk about this anymore,” he pleads. “I don’t want you to be upset, Darcy, nor do I want you to be afraid. You’re safe now—you needn’t worry about a war right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Can I ask you something?”

He flashes her a toothy grin. “Anything.”

Darcy pauses, drinking in the sight of him grinning at her. “It’s about Emily.”

“Oh?” Lupin’s smile fades almost instantly. He exhales through his nose. “I read what she wrote in the _Daily Prophet_. It was touching. How is she?”

“I don’t know, that’s the thing,” Darcy answers, feeling helpless. “She wrote to me—I wrote about the article she’d written—and her dad isn’t doing well.”

“Her dad’s a Muggle, isn’t he?” Lupin asks, and Darcy nods. “It’s probably hard on him because he doesn’t understand like Emily does. He’s probably never heard of a Death Eater in his life, and all of a sudden his wife was killed by them.”

“Do you think I should go see them?”

“If you were Emily, what would you want?”

The answer comes easily to her. “I’d want to be with my friends.” But Darcy doesn’t think it’s a satisfactory answer in the slightest. “Harry thinks I should give her space.”

“You know Emily better than Harry or I do, Darcy.”

It’s not a very direct answer, but it does make Darcy feel better about ignoring Harry’s advice.

Darcy and Lupin finish the bottle of wine he’d bought her for an early birthday gift, and they start on the bottle she’d brought with her. She can feel the alcohol taking control—her forehead is damp with sweat, and the fire doesn’t help at all; the room begins to spin, but she focuses on the television, trying to keep focused on one, solid, unmoving point. Lupin’s cheeks are flushed towards the end of their second bottle, his head in Darcy’s lap as she slowly combs back his hair with her fingers. It’s well into the night when he falls asleep—one leg draped over the arm of the sofa, the other hanging off, planted firmly on the ground. Darcy continues to brush back his hair, trying to appreciate the present—trying to learn the exact feel of his hair, the exact color, trying to familiarize herself with the pout on his lips as he sleeps, the length of his eyelashes. She wonders if there will be a time in the near future when she won’t have Lupin at her side—wonders if, in the near future, she won’t be able to run her fingers through his hair, to have his head in her lap.

She takes one of his limp hands in her own. Lupin’s palm is clammy, slick with sweat, likely not just from the fire and drink. He doesn’t stir when she laces their fingers together, and Darcy hunches over, pressing her lips softly to his forehead.

“I love you,” she breathes, but still he doesn’t stir. Darcy smiles down at him, at the peaceful look across his face. She wonders what he dreams of—if he dreams of her, or if he, like Darcy, dreams of terrifying memories, of death and heartache, dreams full of fear.

Deciding quickly, Darcy leans down over him again, kissing him on the mouth. As soon as she pulls away, his eyes flutter open, and he gives her a tired smile. Lupin doesn’t move his head from her lap. “What have I ever done to deserve you?” he murmurs, closing his eyes again.

Darcy kisses him again, harder this time. When she breaks the kiss, she’s breathless, and the room starts to spin, but not due to the wine—she feels childish and foolish that he makes her so dizzy, that just a kiss can make her feel so in love. “Come to bed,” she whispers, kissing his face all over.

He obliges, and they stumble from the sofa to the bedroom, already undressed when they reach the bed.

* * *

With every passing hour that Darcy is at Lupin’s, her desire to stay grows stronger. Every smile, every laugh, every meal, every kiss—it is a lifestyle that she craves, being shown affection and given attention like a neglected pup. She enjoys having a body to hold at night, enjoys receiving a kiss to the head each time Lupin walks past her as she sits on the sofa. She wonders how long it will be until she finally caves—until she finally gives it all up to be here with him, to spend the rest of her life being loved—the one thing Darcy has always wanted.

Lupin tells her about his continuing job hunt, how the money in his vault has been dwindling, how he should probably learn some money managements skills, and after Darcy offers to move some of her own money into his vault, Lupin insists he has enough left for a little while longer, giving her a dazzling smile. He talks to her for a while about Sirius, stories about her parents that make her smile, talking just to fill the silence sometimes. It slightly unsettled Darcy sometimes how well that Lupin can understand her without her having to voice her problems—it seems sometimes Lupin can tell from her expressions, or the way she carries herself, or how long she sleeps, what she’s thinking. But Darcy’s glad for it.

She’s become comfortable here—comfortable in a way she certainly isn’t at Privet Drive, and a way she isn’t at Hogwarts. Being here, with Lupin, makes her feel incredibly vulnerable. She keeps her guard down here, not having anything to fear. And being so comfortable makes it easy for Darcy to slip back into feelings of guilt and sorrow—makes it easy for Darcy’s mind to trick her into a sense of deepest inadequacy. She becomes suddenly very fearful of Sirius coming north, more so than she’d been before, afraid of losing some of the last of her family. And during those stretches of silence when Lupin is busy doing one thing and Darcy another, she feels drained for all she has—exhausted and weak and wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep for years.

As Lupin messes about in the kitchen Saturday night, Darcy turns from the black-and-white movie on the television, looking over the top of the sofa at him. Today, he looks, not completely healthy, but well rested, his hair tousled and sleeves rolled up to reveal the bite mark on his forearm. She wonders if, when he’s alone at his home, he also falls back into these feelings of self-loathing. If, like her, his thoughts grab hold of him, forcing him to see the truth he doesn’t wish to see. She wonders if guilt over her parents’ death and Sirius’s imprisonment still eat at him, if he too feels he doesn’t deserve Darcy in the slightest—wonders if Lupin can’t get out of bed some days or can’t bring himself to enjoy the little things.

“Are you going to ask me something, or just stare at me?” Lupin asks her distractedly, putting a few clean dishes away. He gives her a quick look, smiling upon seeing her pink cheeks.

“I’m not staring,” she answers defiantly. “I’m—admiring you.”

“Is there a difference?”

Darcy shrugs, her chin upon the top of the sofa. “Let me look at you.”

“You’re checking me out,” he laughs. “You’re making me nervous, scrutinizing me the way you are.”

“I told you, I’m admiring you.” Darcy smiles again at the sound of his low laughter over the chinking of dishes. “Have I thanked you?”

“For what?”

She smiles. “For everything. For letting me stay here, for taking care of me, cooking me food—”

“Don’t thank me, Darcy,” Lupin replies, not unkindly. “I’m not doing it as a favor.” He puts the remaining dishes away and moves closer to her. Darcy sits up on her knees and when Lupin runs his fingers through her hair, she rests her cheek against his chest, closing her eyes and listening to the steady drumming of his heart. “I’m doing it because I care about you, love. Surely you know that.”

“I don’t deserve you,” she murmurs.

Lupin laughs out loud. “You must be the first person I’ve ever heard say that to me.”

Sunday is full of laughter and teasing, laying in bed with their foreheads pressed together and noses brushing and lips dangerously close. It’s full of hand-holding and kisses on each other’s cheeks, fingers running through soft hair and the tender kisses up and down each other’s bodies. Darcy forces herself to think of the present and only of the present—forces herself to appreciate what she has now—whatever this is between them that she doesn’t ever want to end. When was the last time she’d been content? The last time she’d been truly happy, with no worries and no troubles? She can’t remember.

Yet when he touches her with the utmost gentility, when his fingertips cause the most sensitive parts of her to burn hot, it clouds her thoughts and the only thing she can think of is how good it feels—how much she loves him—how much she wants to stay. Darcy kisses him until her mouth is sore, touches him until she is sure there’s no part of his skin she hasn’t felt. And when evening rolls around, it’s only reluctantly that Darcy forces herself out of bed to pack what few things she’s brought with her.

“I’ll make sure you have a room at the Three Broomsticks for next weekend,” Darcy says absently, throwing her clothes back into her bag. Lupin watches her from the bed, one arm tucked behind his head, moonlight spilling through the window onto his bare chest. “Gemma is coming on Saturday to meet with us, and I thought maybe we could sneak Harry down to Hogsmeade with the Invisibility Cloak to spend time with us.”

“Feeling reckless?”

She grins, looking over her shoulder at him. He looks so handsome—casual and partially naked, an easy smile gracing his scruffy face. Darcy stands up straight and turns around to face him, crossing her arms over her chest and blushing fiercely. “You know,” she begins awkwardly. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

Lupin smiles wider, but there’s something sad about it. Darcy turns around quickly, her heart racing. “Darcy, come here,” he says quietly, patting the bed. “I want to tell you something.”

Darcy obeys without hesitation, making her way to the bed and sitting on top of the blankets. Lupin grabs her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“I’m not as young as I once was,” Lupin sighs, bringing her hand to his face, unfolding her fingers so she’s cupping his cheek. Darcy moves closer as he nuzzles into her palm, his hand falling into his lap. “I want to be very clear with you about my intentions before you find out the hard way that perhaps this isn’t what you want.”

Darcy lowers her hand, her brow furrowed. “Is this not—have I done something? I’m sorry—”

“Please don’t apologize, my love, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He smiles weakly at her, sitting up in the semi-darkness and throwing shadows across the floor. “I don’t have much—I never have and I never will because of what I am. But you, Darcy, you could have everything.”

“I don’t want everything,” Darcy whispers back. “I want you.”

Lupin chuckles. “Come here.” Darcy swings a leg over him, sitting in his lap and kissing him on the lips. He touches her face, looking up into her eyes, sighing heavily again. “You are so young—you haven’t had the chance to live yet. What happens when you’re set free, when you have the chance to do anything, and you find that freedom suits you?”

Frowning, Darcy wraps her arms loosely around Lupin’s shoulders. “What are you saying?”

“Are you absolutely sure this is what you want? Because I want this for as long as I have left to me. But if you don’t, then I won’t stop you from leaving.”

Darcy hesitates. She thought it would come easy to her, the reassurances and promise of, _of course this will be forever_. She had thought it before—wanted him for the rest of her life, never wanting him to leave her side, but she’s always been a romantic, and she’s always desired a family, but she had never expected her life to go this way. All those months ago—almost a year ago now—she and Lupin had walked the grounds and Darcy had confided in him her biggest dream, of having a family and children who would always be loved by their parents. But when she’d told him that then, Darcy hadn’t meant a family—a life—with him.

It strikes her just now just how old he really is—fifteen years her senior, likely ready to settle, to have children of his own— _does he even want any_? Darcy had been so distracted by the idea of not being alone anymore that she hadn’t really given a whole lot of thought about their future. All she had given thought to was her own future—a future that involved protecting Harry, being by his side throughout whatever was to come. How could she ever have a real future with Lupin while Harry was in danger?

“Darcy?” Lupin rasps. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, and he tucks some of her hair behind her ears, clenching his jaw. “What is it?”

With her arms still draped over his shoulders, Darcy kisses his forehead, and he leans into her, his forehead against her collarbone. Darcy tangles her fingers in the back of his hair, holding him to her. “I’m not—” she shifts uncomfortably in his lap. “Remus, I’m not ready for—I mean, I’m happy with what we have.”

He looks up at her for a long time and kisses the exposed skin just above the collar on his shirt. Goosebumps rise on her flesh and Darcy purses her lips.

“I’m sorry if it’s not enough for you,” she murmurs, resting her chip atop his head. “This is all very new to me. It’s always been me and Harry for all our lives, and I’ve never felt comfortable being someone’s, but I want to be yours.” She pauses. “I want you to be mine.”

“Darcy,” Lupin smiles, kissing her neck, nipping her skin lightly. “Never apologize for that. What we have is more than I could have ever asked for, and if you’re not ready, that’s all right.” He pulls away from her and leans against the headboard of the bed, eyes roving over her face. “I know this is different than anything you’ve ever done. I know that you have a lot on your plate, and I’m willing to wait. But I need you to know what I want.”

But his words don’t reassure her. Darcy feels guilty for her inability to fully commit—her inability to give him what he wants. She appreciates the love he has for her, and it warms her bones. Darcy takes a moment and climbs off him, closing her bag and swinging it over her shoulder. “I have to go,” she says.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll see you next weekend?”

“Of course.”

“Can I write to you if I start to feel lonely?”

“Always.”

Darcy nods, and Lupin stands up from his spot on the bed, pulling a shirt on over his head and walking with her to the front door. “Remus, I’m s—”

“Don’t say it.” His tone is firm, but he smiles at her all the same. “Say hello to Harry for me.”

Lupin gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, and when Darcy Disapparates from the front step, she regrets not kissing him properly before leaving.


	17. Chapter 17

Time moves unusually fast over the the next week.

Perhaps it’s just Darcy’s excitement at the prospect of seeing Gemma again for the first time since the funeral—she’s not sure.

Snape is, not friendly, but not overly cruel towards her, and begins to split the massive amount of homework and essays between themselves to grade (though he does snap at her once after claiming she had been too lenient with her grading on Harry’s homework). That small gesture—though she’s sure it’s because Snape is just tired of doing all the work himself) makes her feel important and more like the actual assistant she is instead of someone who just stands in the corner, lurking in the shadows. Despite what she’d said to Carla, she does end up helping with one of the essays Snape had set her class.

Unable to keep herself from snooping one day while in Snape’s office alone for a few moments one day, Darcy opens his desk drawer and finds the S.P.E.W. badge tucked away in the corner. She can’t help but smile, closing the drawer quickly, and his snide comments bounce off her much more easily afterwards. To save his pride, Darcy doesn’t tell Hermione this, but instead bends the truth slightly by telling her that Lupin was very grateful for his badge and what she’s doing, to which Hermione had beamed.

Harry has dinner in Darcy’s room on Wednesday, mostly fretting over the possible ways Sirius could get caught, or what they’d do with him if he did end up getting caught. Trying to reach for a happier topic, they settle on the Triwizard Tournament, chatting about who might put their name forward for such a dangerous and glorious tournament. Darcy keeps him well past curfew as the time slips by, and she remembers fondly the way Lupin would offer to walk her back whenever he’d kept her late in his own apartment.

Each night, he’s all Darcy can think of. She hates it. All that runs through her mind each and every night is how deeply undeserving she is of him—how she should have known that being a Potter would ruin things in the end. But Lupin hadn’t been around when they were younger—he’d never seen firsthand the closeness that had developed between Darcy and her brother. How could he ever possibly understand her need to be with him during such troubling times? Emily had never understood, and Emily had understood a lot more than she let on. None of her friends could ever understand; Darcy had sacrificed everything to care for Harry, to keep him fed and clean and to comfort him and love him—Harry defines her. She had come into a new world at eleven years old to discover people knew her by name because of her brother. Her entire life has been centered around him, and Darcy can’t imagine ever living a life that isn’t tethered to Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

To have a family—to start a family—to commit to forever frightens her. The future has always frightened her, always uncertain and ever changing. Darcy can’t pretend that she doesn’t want it. It’s easy to imagine a few months from now, waking beside Lupin on a Saturday morning—leaving him each Sunday… If she hadn’t taken this stupid job, she could be with him everyday, love him everyday, kiss and touch him everyday. But she knows there’s a reason she’s here—knows now that Dumbledore had been reading signs, to use Sirius’s words, and knew that Darcy was needed. She had chosen Harry over everything by coming back here, just as she’s chosen him over everything for over a decade.

The weather seems to change overnight, and on Friday morning, the air is crisper than it had been. Summer is officially over, and the snow capped mountains loom over the browning grass of the Hogwarts grounds. Leaves are already falling from the trees of the Forbidden Forest, dark, thin branches making the clump of unknown look slightly creepy. To see the leaves changing so rapidly seems an ominous sign to Darcy, but she attributes that feeling to her increasing paranoia and brushes it off. Seasons have always had a mind of their own at Hogwarts, but Darcy had hoped that summer would persist a little while longer, giving her more time to wander the grounds and not have to worry about wearing layers of clothing.

Sirius’s reply to Harry’s letter still hasn’t arrived, and Darcy takes this as a good thing. She isn’t sure where he is now, but she knows he mustn’t be too close, for Hedwig surely would have returned by now. That, or she’s flying from wherever he had been, and Sirius may have Apparated somewhere much closer in the meantime. Regardless, she decides to wait until she hears back from him before doing anything rash. Her heart pounds in her chest at the thought of admitting she’s been intimate with one of his oldest friends—with one of her parents’ best friends. She can’t think of a good way to tell Sirius she loves him without sounding like a child. Hopefully, Gemma can give her some insight beforehand.

Friday night she finds herself lazing on a sofa in a room at the Three Broomsticks—a fire burns in the hearth, keeping the night chill at bay. A pitcher of warm butterbeer, half-empty now, sits on the corner of the coffee table, the beverage that Darcy had decided on after coming to the conclusion alcohol wouldn’t do anything to help her grade third year essays. Lupin had raised his eyebrows in surprise when she declined his offer to buy a bottle of wine, and she’d scowled at him. Lupin had only chuckled and said, “You’ve been spending too much time in Severus’s company.”

Darcy looks sideways at Lupin every so often, and though he seems lost in his novel, Darcy notices the way his leg continues to bounce anxiously, the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, the awkward way he rubs the back of his neck every few minutes. Having had only a couple of days to recover after his last transformation, Darcy feels quite guilty and insensitive about dragging him to Hogsmeade to talk to her friend about becoming Gemma’s project. But Lupin hasn’t complained once, hasn’t mentioned any pain or tiredness despite it being very visible in his eyes and face. Darcy reaches out to him suddenly, giving his arm a slight squeeze before returning to her work. Lupin’s leg stops bouncing, and he smiles, not taking his eyes off his book.

She lies awake in bed for a long time that night, quiet, her back to Lupin. He brushes the small of her back lightly with the backs of his fingers, a distracted touch that tells Darcy his mind is somewhere far away from the room they’re in. She wonders if it’s asking too much of Lupin to have him meet with Gemma, to ask him to submit to whatever experiments Gemma has planned. But Gemma wouldn’t purposefully hurt him—wouldn’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to. Or would she? Is she doing this for Lupin—for werewolves—or is she doing this for herself, to put her own research out there? To make a name for herself by exploiting Lupin’s most hated part of himself?

_That’s cruel. How could you think that?_ Darcy tells herself. _Gemma has always been good to you. Gemma has never exploited you—why would she do that to someone you love?_ She remembers Hermione being outraged over Darcy’s willingness to subject Lupin to this experiment, throwing the world ‘animal’ in her face. Darcy frowns—she know better than anyone that Lupin is no animal. She thinks of the scars on her shoulder, the scars she doesn’t think much of now. Her eyes aren’t drawn to them whenever she dresses or undresses in front of a mirror anymore, but Lupin never seems to be able to forget. Every time the scars are visible to him, he runs his fingers gently over them or just barely brushes his lips to them. The scars are always a part of the routine places he kisses her, never lacking attention.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but wakes up Saturday morning to swift knocking on the door. Madam Rosmerta’s voice makes Lupin stir beside her, his fingers still touching her back. They both rub their eyes blearily, and Madam Rosmerta says—“You have a visitor. Miss Smythe is here to see you.”

“I told you I could announce myself…” Gemma retorts.

Madam Rosmerta doesn’t say anything more, but Darcy hears the clicking of her heels against the wooden floors as she walks away. Darcy picks her watch up off the nightstand and looks at the time: 9:56.

“We’ll be down in a minute,” Darcy says loudly, climbing out of bed and hurriedly searching for something to wear. “Order some drinks.”

“No,” comes Gemma’s reply, a firm and commanding tone that makes Darcy stand up straight and exchange a nervous glance with Lupin. “This is a conversation I’d rather have in private.”

Before Darcy lets Gemma inside, her heart begins to flutter. With a hand on the doorknob, Lupin at her side, Darcy whispers. “Are you sure about this?” There are dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept at all. “You don’t have to go through with this.”

Lupin nods.

“I can hear you, you know.”

Darcy flushes and opens the door. Gemma barrels inside, a large and ornate trunk in one hand—the trunk she’d used for her things at Hogwarts. Darcy sees her initials embossed in gold on the front, and when Gemma sets it down on the circular table in the room, she gives Darcy a tight hug, then surprises Darcy by giving Lupin a one-armed hug that he hesitantly returns.

“How’ve you been?” Gemma asks Darcy, as Lupin conjures a third chair for himself and seats himself next to Darcy, across the table from Gemma.

Darcy shrugs casually. “As good as I can be.”

Gemma gives Darcy a serious look. “You read what Emily wrote?”

“Yeah. I saved it. Have you gone to see her lately?”

“I stayed for a few days at her place this week,” Gemma answers, her voice low. “Her dad’s in bad shape, Darcy. Emily barely comes home from work most days. And when she does, she and her dad don’t speak.”

Darcy digests this, but doesn’t know what to say.

Gemma doesn’t press the issue, turning to Lupin. “How are you feeling? I know the full moon was a few days ago.”

“I’m used to it,” Lupin replies, a bite to his tone. “Perhaps we could begin?”

Gemma nods, leaning forward across the table, suddenly becoming very businesslike. “This study will be conducted over six months—six full moons. If, at any time, you want out, all you need to do is let me know. I will not bind you by contract to complete the study.” She holds up a finger to him, unbuckling her trunk and rummaging inside of it. When she finds what she needs, she closes it and tosses something to Lupin. It jingles when it hits the table. “I thought you may need a little convincing—I know it’s a lot to agree to. This is the first half, and for the fourth, fifth, and sixth month, you’ll get the rest in increments after the full moon wanes.”

Lupin narrows his eyes at her and she nods encouraging at the bag in front of him. He unties the loose knot and looks inside, immediately closing it, his cheeks slightly pink. “Gemma, I—I can’t accept this—”

“It’s yours,” Gemma insists. “Did you think you wouldn’t be paid for this? Like I said, the rest will come in increments during the last three months. Your potion will be provided to you a few days before the week preceding the full moon. The details we can work out after we’ve discussed everything.” She pauses, waiting for an answer. “So?”

Lupin sighs heavily, fingering the bag of money, looking desperately at it. After a few moments, he looks up at Darcy, and she nods at him. Turning back to Gemma, Lupin says, “All right. Tell me everything.”

Gemma smiles from ear to ear. “The first thing you need to understand is that there will be small risks associated, but are unlikely to happen. What you’ve got to remember is that this research will not only affect you, but other werewolves—those who suffer in silence. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“The first thing we need to do is start with a control. Next full moon, I want you to start documenting your symptoms the first day they begin, and continue documenting until they end completely. You can continue taking your potion, but make sure you record everything. That will give us a good idea of what we’ll be working with.” Gemma opens her trunk again, pulling out some papers. There are six in all, small writing across the surface. All of them have the same golden lettering at the top, spelling out _St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_. “Once we know what we’re working with, we can attempt to treat them. I’m assuming you typically feel achy, sore, weak? Feverish?”

“Yes,” Lupin replies, running a hand through his hair. “All of those things.”

“A sort of…” Gemma hesitates, smiling wickedly and looking from Lupin to Darcy and back again. “Insatiability?”

Lupin blushes in earnest, and Darcy feels very sheepish. They both look away from Gemma, and Lupin clears his throat loudly, filling the silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Gemma laughs. “Working at St Mungo’s means nothing is off limits anymore, and by agreeing to this, you agree to being completely honest. I need to know about every pain, sore, or other embarrassing symptom. But anyway—in short, all things that can typically be cured quite easily?”

Lupin nods.

“You know why those potions don’t work as well on you as on—say Darcy, for instance?”

He looks at Darcy, and she smiles. “I assume it has something to do with my—condition.”

“Right. It builds up—not a tolerance, but a sort of immunity, for lack of a better word. There’s a part of you that isn’t quite human, so potions that won’t work on animals will never work completely with you.” Gemma talks with her hands, sounding confident and knowledgeable. “That’s how we’ll start—we’ll tweak some basic potions, switch some ingredients, eventually growing bolder where we see fit. Your records of the effects will influence our decisions and if, after six months, we see we’ve made an improvement, then we’ll begin moving forward and testing it on the public—making sure it’s safe for other people. We’re hoping that what works with you will work with others—not every person is the same, but it’s a start.”

Darcy looks warily at Gemma, trying not to give her opinion too loudly. She knows that Lupin’s decision is his alone, that Gemma isn’t going to force him into this, and that she will support him in whatever he chooses. But Gemma’s offer doesn’t seem bad—an unlimited supply of Wolfsbane, a sack of money for him, and in return, possibly a solution to the pain that comes with a full moon.

Lupin closes his hands together in front of him. “And if, by the end of six months, nothing has worked?” he asks.

Gemma only smiles at him, a weak and sad smile. “Listen,” she sighs, slouching back in her chair. “I know how it is for you in the world. There will always be people who see you as nothing more than a werewolf—than an animal. But I know you’re human, too. And I’m not going to continue putting you through the motions like an animal. Six months seems to me more than enough time to find something.”

Darcy feels a great surge of affection for Gemma. She looks at Lupin, putting a hand on his shaking leg under the table. It steadies at her touch, and Lupin gives her a warm, easy smile. “All right,” he says finally. “I’ll be your victim. You’ve convinced me.”

Gemma spreads out the six pages, giving Lupin a quill she summons from nowhere. “This is just a waiver—I trust you at your word, but since all of my research is going to be handed into my superior, I have to follow hospital policy. I just need a signature at the bottom—acknowledging you understand the risks and have consented.”

Lupin sighs dramatically, signing his name in a messy scrawl at the bottom of the second page. Gemma beams, watching him the whole time, looking at Darcy with her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. When the ink dries, she puts the papers back in her trunk.

“Excellent. Now the real fun begins.” Gemma claps her hands together. “Are you allergic to any ingredients or plants that you can think of?”

The rest of the morning and most of the afternoon is spent in the room, Gemma examining every inch of him, a piece of parchment and quill recording every detail in midair. Gemma seems to have brought the entire hospital with her in her trunk; she records his weight (“Too skinny. Hasn’t Darcy been fattening you up?”), records his height (“Darcy’s always liked her men tall.”), checks his eyes and his mouth, fingers touching his face with laziness, as if he’s just another patient. Darcy blushes again upon seeing Gemma touch him with such casual ease—she feels his neck for a pulse, and then his wrist, puts her hands under his shirt to listen to his heart and breathing. Darcy is amazed that Gemma doesn’t seem to be affected by the heat of his skin the way she is—how Gemma’s touch doesn’t linger on his flesh, wanting to drag out the moments they’re touching. Darcy is amazed that other women don’t respond to him like she does—is amazed that simple contact with Lupin still makes her weak, while Gemma seems to manhandle him at times. But with each touch Gemma gives him, Darcy feels jealousy burn in her chest, her heart beating abnormally fast. But every time Lupin looks at Darcy and smiles, the jealous monster inside her settles. Gemma doesn’t seem to notice anything, firing question after question at him.

And then, Gemma pulls a long needle out from her trunk and for the first time, Lupin recoils.

“What are you doing?” he snaps.

Gemma pauses, giving him an incredulous and exasperated look. “Taking some of your blood,” she answers. “You’re a grown man—sit still and it’ll be over in a moment.”

“What do you need my blood for?”

“Muggle doctors do it, and the Healer I work with is very interested in Muggle medicine,” Gemma says flatly, approaching him, but Lupin pulls his arm away. She laughs. “You’re really afraid of needles? Do I need to have Darcy hold your hand?”

“Just do it, then.” Lupin holds out his arm—the one that lacks the bite mark. Gemma waves her wand and a piece of cord wraps itself around Lupin’s bicep. She feels around for a vein and sticks him with with the needle. True to her word, the process is quick and Lupin flinches when she pulls the needle out of his arm.

“That’s all I need from you—”

“As if you didn’t just give me a complete examination?” Lupin jokes, throwing Darcy another cool smile. She shifts in her chair, feeling very out of place among Gemma and Lupin. The feeling doesn’t sit well with her.

“Be thankful I didn’t make you take your clothes off,” Gemma says with a raised eyebrow, packing all of her things away. “Examinations are usually done with our patients in thin gowns—you can see everything in them. And I mean _everything_.”

“Small comfort,” Lupin mutters, rubbing the spot on his arm where Gemma’s needle had poked him.

Gemma closes her trunk and Darcy sees the dark look on her face. She frowns. “Gemma, what’s wrong?” Darcy asks.

“There is one more thing.”

Lupin tenses, looking intently at Gemma. “What?” he prompts.

Looking from Lupin to Darcy, Gemma continues. “I’ve heard rumors,” she whispers, and Darcy thinks she’s about to find out why Gemma had wanted to lock themselves in a room, away from eavesdroppers. Darcy leans forward, and Lupin tilts his head slightly. “I’ve heard my parents talking. They’ve been worried.”

“About what?” Darcy says eagerly, hungry for information. “About Hogwarts? About Voldemort?”

Gemma looks at Darcy for a long time, and then turns to speak to Lupin directly. “Their Dark Marks are getting darker. Just barely, but noticeable.”

Darcy understands why Gemma’s said this to Lupin, for she doesn’t understand much else. She looks to Lupin for clarification and as soon as their eyes meet, he tells her, “The most important people in Voldemort’s circle—most Death Eaters—are branded with the Dark Mark. It’s like a form of communication between them and Voldemort.”

Before Darcy can answer, Gemma speaks again. “You use the name.”

Lupin doesn’t falter. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s only a name.”

“It’s not only a name,” Gemma replies. “Surely you know that.”

He considers Gemma, but doesn’t argue. “How long has it been since their Dark Marks burned?”

“I’m not sure. The first I heard of it was just a week ago. I overheard my parents talking about it.” Gemma hesitates. “They’re afraid.” She pulls her trunk off the table, holding it at her side. “I have to bring all this back to St Mungo’s. I’ll be back for dinner, Darcy, if you’d like to catch up.”

“Sounds great.”

Gemma waves goodbye to them and heads back out the door. As the door closes behind her, Lupin chuckles, shuddering. “I feel violated.”

Darcy doesn’t say anything, but stands up and walks over to him, kissing him hard. Lupin stumbles backwards, responding with force, breathless when Darcy pulls away. “If I have to watch her put hands on you for another second, I might lose my mind,” she whispers against his lips, kissing him again.

Lupin laughs. “I much prefer your gentle hands.” He runs his fingers through her hair and Darcy closes her eyes. “Come here.”

She leans closer and his lips crash against her’s.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Darcy rests her head on Lupin’s chest, sighing. She drags her index finger lazily over a scar that crosses his stomach. He allows her, unflinching, just as he’s let her touch them every time they go to bed together. As much as she had smiled and laughed in bed with him just a few minutes ago, Darcy can’t help but focus her thoughts again on their meeting with Gemma. She wants to talk about how Lupin feels about the whole thing, wants to ask more questions about Gemma’s cryptic comment about Dark Marks becoming darker. She needs to know what it means—if this is one of the signs Sirius had been talking about in his letter. She wonders if she should tell Sirius—if she should tell Dumbledore. Hadn’t he asked her to watch out for anything out of the ordinary?

With a pang, Darcy is struck with a sudden sadness over Sirius. She had hoped he’d write her every chance he got, hoped he’d be awaiting her next letter eagerly. But she doesn’t even know where he is—only that it takes a considerable amount of time for an owl to make the journey. There’s so much she wants to tell him. She wants to hear his voice, his laughter—she wants things to be the way they should be—Darcy, Harry, and Sirius together, a proper family. And Lupin—

Where does Lupin fit into this? _He’s my family too_. And if she’s being honest with herself, Darcy had been prepared to be his family the moment he revealed he’d known her parents—not just that he’d known them, that he’d been close to them. Darcy had thought for a little that Lupin could fill the gap in her heart that was left when her parents died—when she’d been abandoned, taken from the arms of her real family, placed on the doorstep of people who didn’t want her. But Darcy hadn’t realized it would go this far—hadn’t realized that she’d grow to love him so much, and that he’d love her in return. That realization had changed everything, left her feeling confused.

“Can we talk about it now?” she asks, tilting her head back to look at him.

Lupin looks down at her, considering her, eyes traveling for a brief second down towards her exposed chest before pulling back up to her eyes. His hair is ruffled, his eyes tired. Seeing him look so disheveled and flushed is endearing to Darcy—it gives him a youthful appearance that he usually lacks around the full moon.

“How are you feeling?” Darcy asks again, hoping he’ll stop scrutinizing her soon.

Thankfully, he looks down at her hand for a moment, still resting upon his stomach, chuckling softly to himself. “Don’t you worry about me, Darcy.”

Darcy smiles sadly. “Of course I worry about you.”

“It’ll be fine,” Lupin says. “I don’t have to worry about being dangerous for another six months, and I have a large bag of money that’s begging to be put to use—say, dinner tomorrow night?”

She blushes. “You should save it. Put it in your vault.”

“Hark who’s talking,” Lupin laughs, making Darcy smile in earnest. “Your money management skills are no better. And I know you told Madam Rosmerta not to let me pay for anything.” When Darcy only blushes harder, Lupin sighs happily, “It’s cute when you blush.”

“What Gemma said—about the Dark Mark,” she begins carefully. A crease appears between Lupin’s eyebrows and she looks away bashfully, tracing lazy patterns on his skin. “What does it mean? Tell the truth.”

“Don’t worry about it, my love,” Lupin whispers, wrapping both arms around Darcy and pulling her closer. She peppers his chest with kisses and he laughs again. “I’ll take care of it.”

Between kisses, her lips moving higher up his chest to nip at his collarbone, Darcy murmurs, “Tell me.” She’s too content to be angry right now, too happy with his body pressed against her’s. “Are you afraid of upsetting me?”

“You do know how to convince a man, don’t you?” Lupin purrs as she kisses up his neck. When her lips reach just below his ear, he groans. “Who taught you such wicked things?”

She doesn’t answer him, but let’s her fingertips brush slowly over the skin just below his navel. He grabs her leg, attempting to swing it over his hip, but Darcy shakes her head, ceases kissing him, and Lupin’s eyes snap open. “Tell me the truth, Remus Lupin.”

Impatience momentarily flashes in his eyes, but he sighs and it’s gone. He scoops Darcy’s hand from his stomach and laces their fingers together, kissing each of her slender fingers. “Fine—it’s worrying.”

Darcy pulls away from him immediately, ignoring his protests, and she props herself up on an elbow. “It means Voldemort’s getting stronger, doesn’t it? But how is that possible?” But she thinks harder about what Gemma had said, and continues. “By why would Gemma’s parents be afraid? Isn’t that what they want?”

Lupin clears his throat, sitting up and propping his pillow against the headboard. Darcy mimics him, holding the sheet to her chest, to block out any distraction that might keep Lupin from giving her vital information. “What you have to understand, Darcy, is that many of Voldemort’s most devoted servants are currently in Azkaban.” He pauses, waiting to see if she is going to speak, but Darcy keeps silent. “When Voldemort failed to kill Harry, Death Eaters were being rounded up and brought to trial. Many of them were found guilty and sent to Azkaban, but others feigned ignorance, claiming they’d been put under the Imperius Curse—that they never realized what Voldemort was having them do.”

“And the Ministry just believed that?” Darcy asks, scrunching her nose.

“It’s more complicated than that, my love,” Lupin explains with a forced smile. “Some people were under the Imperius Curse, but it was near impossible to sort out who was telling the truth and who wasn’t.” And when Darcy continues to look skeptical, he continues. “What would you have done? Condemn them all, even the innocent, to live out the rest of their lives in Azkaban?”

Darcy ponders the question. Could she really condemn innocent people to that forsaken prison? “They were cowards,” she says suddenly. “The ones who lied.”

Lupin grimaces. “You could say that,” he agrees, nodding very slightly. “Many of Voldemort’s supporters fear his rise to power again because they fear him. Many of them were tricked into becoming his followers—blackmailed and tortured, threatened.”

And Darcy suddenly remembers a sunny June afternoon, seating underneath the shadow of a beech tree by the lake, Gemma sitting across from her. _My parents didn’t exactly sign up to become Death Eaters, Darcy. They were threatened and blackmailed, and once you’re a Death Eater, you can’t just decide to hang up your cloak and live out a peaceful life._ And Darcy begins to understand—Gemma would have been a small child, maybe five or six when the trials had been going on. Her parents would have been afraid for their young daughter had they been sent to Azkaban, yet they couldn’t have just denounced Voldemort at the height of his reign. She tries to imagine herself in that position—tries to imagine what she would do if forced to choose between someone she loved or Azkaban.

Lupin lets her work everything out for a few moments before speaking again. “If Voldemort is growing stronger again, I don’t doubt that many of his followers are becoming more afraid by the day,” he says. “Do you think Voldemort will be forgiving towards servants who denied their involvement? Who wanted nothing to do with him after he vanished? Who didn’t try to seek him out afterwards?”

“Then they should fight against him instead of hiding or fleeing,” Darcy answers quickly, taking Lupin by surprise. “My mother had me and she still fought against him.”

“Not everyone is like your mother,” Lupin says after a long and heavy pause. “Most of Voldemort’s followers will return to him begging forgiveness, should he return, out of fear for their families and their own lives.”

“So that’s what it means?” Darcy whispers, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and giving a slight squeeze. “Gemma’s parents are afraid because they know he’s getting stronger.”

Lupin nods.

“Do you believe it?”

“I trust that Gemma knows what she’s saying,” Lupin says slowly, rubbing his jaw. “But who’s to say the information she heard was accurate? Who’s to say she didn’t misunderstand it? It’s my understanding that Gemma’s parents don’t actively inform her of most things.”

Darcy’s brow furrows. “How do you come to that conclusion? Has she spoken to you about these things?”

Lupin chuckles, but only for a moment. “I do not believe that, had Gemma known about what was to happen at the Quidditch World Cup, she wouldn’t have told someone. I do not believe she would have gone at all had she known.” He reaches out to tuck some of Darcy’s hair behind her ear. “I would think that event had been common knowledge among Death Eaters.”

Darcy wonders if now is a good time to ask one more question. Lupin seems so vulnerable—his guard seems lowered and he’s tired, and the openness and honesty of their conversation makes her think it’ll be easier to solicit an honest answer from him. “Remus,” she starts. “Do you think there’s a war coming?”

He seems to battle some internal conflict right before her eyes, and Darcy knows that she could not have asked for a better time to ask. “Yes,” he rasps. “I do.”

And something comes to Darcy then. Something she had forgotten about, but now seems so important… “Harry told me, at the end of the school year, that he thought Professor Trelawney had made a proper prediction.”

Lupin’s eyes seem to focus, and he sits up a little straighter. “But you never told me this!”

Darcy opens her mouth to speak, feeling apologetic, and can’t find appropriate words to say. “I’m sorry, I—I forgot!”

“Go on, then,” he urges. “What did she say?”

“That Voldemort’s servant would return—and that night Peter got away—and that Voldemort would rise more…” Darcy thinks hard, trying to remember. “He’d be greater and more terrible… something along those lines.”

Darcy gives him a minute so the words can sink in. Saying them out loud is frightening after their conversation about Death Eaters. “Darcy, listen to me,” he says, and his tone makes Darcy wary. She pulls her knees up to her chest, waiting for him to continue. “You must stay here, at Hogwarts. It is safe for you here, with Dumbledore as Headmaster. You must stay with Harry and—”

“And what?” Darcy asks, her heart starting to race. “And sit this war out? Hide behind Dumbledore? Absolutely not—when the war comes, I’m going to fight. With you. For you. For my parents, and my friends, and Harry.”

Lupin hesitates. “You don’t know what it was like,” he replies, keeping his voice low. “You have no idea what war is like—magic you’ve never thought possible—”

“I know what it’s like,” Darcy snaps. “I know the cost of war quite well, same as you do.”

“Suffering,” he snarls, suddenly wolfish. “All that comes with war is suffering, and is it too much for me to try to keep you away from that? You’d be hunted like an animal, Darcy—there’d be a reward for whoever brought your body back to Voldemort—”

“Don’t think I don’t know what could happen,” Darcy shoots back, her heart pounding in her ears. “I would rather die fighting Voldemort than hide like a coward—”

Lupin interrupts her, startling her, his voice drowning out her’s. “I can’t lose you, Darcy.” Lupin looks away. His chest is rising and falling rapidly and he takes a deep breath, exhaling through his nose, his lips pursed. Then he looks at her again. “I won’t—I can’t—”

“You won’t lose me.”

“You’re too young—”

“The same age as you were when you fought—when Sirius and my parents fought—my parents died for me and Harry,” Darcy counters. “I am Lily Potter’s daughter, and I will not hide away in a castle while Voldemort is out there—”

“And I will not lose you the way I lost them!” Lupin shouts the words, causing Darcy to instinctively scramble away from him. He looks down at her with wide eyes and tears well in her own. “No—no, Darcy, I’m sorry—please…” Lupin reaches out for her, taking one of her hands and tugging gently at it. “Come here.”

Darcy moves slowly back towards him, wrapping the sheet around her tighter. Lupin’s hand moves to her face, to cup her cheek and tangle his fingers in her hair. He leans in and rests his forehead against her’s.

“I know you will not listen,” he whispers, pulling away slightly to look her in the eyes. “But just for this one moment, promise me you won’t fight in this war.”

Darcy frowns, and Lupin seems to know what’s coming. “I can’t promise you that.”

He looks exasperated, and he gives her a small smile. “You’re damn stubborn, Darcy.”

“I got it from my mother.”

“Yes,” Lupin laughs weakly, “you did.”

* * *

Darcy and Gemma dine alone in the common room of the Three Broomsticks that evening. She tries to keep the conversation away from anything Voldemort or Death Eater related, and they find that conversation comes very naturally. Darcy has a lot to tell Gemma about Hogwarts and Gemma has good stories about patients who frequent St Mungo’s. They laugh often, giggling like thirteen-year-olds, yet Darcy can’t help but notice that Gemma’s laughter seems half-forced, her smiles not as easy as they had been for years before. There’s definitely a weariness to her, evident in the way she slouches and the faint shadows under her eyes.

“Sorry I couldn’t be here for your birthday, Darcy,” Gemma says finally, after they push their plates away, stomachs full. “I wanted to come and surprise you, but things have been—well, I suppose this is the real world now? We can’t just sneak off to the bathroom anymore to drown in firewhiskey whenever we want.”

Darcy smiles a sad smile, wishing she could relive her last year at Hogwarts, knowing everything that she knows now.

“We might, however, be seeing each other much more in the near future.” Gemma’s dark eyes seem to twinkle.

“Oh?”

“Classes finished end of August, and after every graduating class, they give one graduate the opportunity to train on the field—normally with mediwitches and wizards at Quidditch games. But this year isn’t like every year, is it?”

“What do you mean?” Darcy asks eagerly.

“It’s the Tri-Wizard Tournament this year, of course,” Gemma grins. “They’re sending an extra Healer to aid Madam Pomfrey during the tasks, just in case, and I’ll be working alongside Madam Pomfrey twice a week for the year.”

Darcy smiles wide, her spirits lifting. “That’s amazing! Carla will be so happy!”

Gemma shrugs modestly, but there’s still a wicked smile on her face. “I knew you’d like that.”

Nodding, Darcy looks down at her lap, blushing suddenly. She looks up at Gemma again, her eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. “Can I ask you something?” Darcy says, clearing her throat nervously. “And please don’t laugh if it sounds stupid.”

“What?”

“I just—er—” Darcy looks away again, and Gemma leans in closer. “You and Remus, I—I only mean you looked very comfortable, ah—touching him and—”

Gemma bursts out laughing, making Darcy flush a deep scarlet. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, Darcy, but I couldn’t help myself,” Gemma sighs. “You’re being ridiculous. It’s my job to poke and prod—if I hadn’t looked comfortable, it would have meant I wasn’t doing my job properly. And I would never go after him—isn’t there some unspoken code about those kinds of things?”

“You’re right, I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous,” Darcy mutters. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah, don’t apologize,” Gemma says, waving a hand at Darcy. “I should be the one apologizing. If it makes you feel better, you should be thankful it’s me and not one of the other girls I took classes with. If you hadn’t made a move, one of them would have.”

Darcy chuckles softly. “I love him, Gemma.”

“I know you do.” Gemma raises her glass of wine and urges Darcy to do the same. “To you, Darcy. Happy late birthday.”

* * *

“Remus?”

He hums in response, his eyes still closed.

Darcy smiles weakly at him, brushing his hair back out of his eyes. She leans in and kisses him softly. “Do you think I’m the most beautiful girl you’ve ever met?”

“Of course, kitten. Now go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.” She kisses him again. “When did you know that you loved me?”

Lupin’s eyes flutter open. He flashes her a tired smile, closing his eyes again and stroking her hair. “When I came back in the morning,” he whispers. “The morning after everything, and you were already there—waiting for me—unafraid. I was certain then. Any other woman—any other sane woman—would have run the other way, but you came back.”

“I’m not like other women,” Darcy smiles, glad he can’t see her blush.

“No, you’re not.” He chuckles, sighing. “There were times before that—I thought—” Lupin pauses, continuing to run his fingers through her hair. “Skipping rocks across the lake, carefree as can be. Falling asleep at my side, a feeling I never thought possible. The first time you said my name. Do you remember that?”

Darcy laughs softly. “I remember.”

“It rolled off your tongue so well,” he continues. “Like my name was meant to be said by you.”

“I dreamt about you for months, you know.”

“All good dreams, I hope?”

It’s not entirely the truth, but Darcy can only think of the better dreams—the obscene dreams that had made her blush, that had made her warm between the legs. “Always good dreams,” she tells him.

“Oh?” Lupin grins, kissing her jaw and moving closer to her, propping himself on an elbow and looking down upon her. “And tell me, sweetheart—what exactly was I doing in these dreams?”

Darcy laughs out loud as he kisses her neck, nipping at her skin. “Wicked things— _sinful_ things,” she answers. She rakes her fingers through his hair, grabbing a fistful. “Night after night I dreamt of you.”

Lupin drags his lips down her throat, placing a kiss at the bottom of it and looking up for a moment to smile at her. “Where did I touch you in your dreams, love?” he murmurs into her skin.

Darcy takes his hand in her’s, guiding it down to the heat between her legs.

“Did I ever tell you I loved you in your dreams?”

“No,” she sighs, his fingers making her flesh burn hot with each light touch.

“I love you, Darcy,” Lupin says, kissing her lips. “I love you, I love you…”

* * *

Sunday is spent curled up in front of the fire, Lupin reading out loud to her, their backs against the modest loveseat in the room. Darcy had run back to Hogwarts to retrieve the poetry book he’d marked up for her, and she’s quite glad she did—hearing him purr her favorite poem into her ear makes her feel _something_ , a feeling she’s never felt before, a feeling she can’t quite place, but a feeling that she can only describe as contentment. Yet something stirs within her, a pang in her heart that makes her ache—the feeling of having missed out.

Darcy wonders what life would be like if he’d come back for her and Harry—if he’d been a part of their lives since the beginning. She wonders how many days they would have spent, Darcy and Harry curled up by a fire as Lupin read to them, cared for them, made sure that they weren’t so alone in the cruel world they’d been born into.

Lupin notices Darcy’s far off stare, her unfocused eyes gazing into the dancing flames, and he closes the book on his thumb. “What’s wrong?” These words are uttered from him quite often—more so than Darcy wishes. She wishes that she could just appreciate what they have—wishes she could just appreciate being with him now, in the present, and she scolds herself silently.

“Nothing,” she whispers, adjusting her head on his chest to look up at him. “Kiss me before I start talking and don’t stop.”

He sighs, brushing his thumb over her lips. “A tempting offer,” he replies. “But if there’s something bothering you, I’d like to hear it.”

“I wish I could have known you longer,” she admits quietly, turning her gaze back towards the fire. Darcy sniffles, rubbing her eyes, trying to stop the tears before they even come. “I wish I could have met you again before you came to Hogwarts.”

Lupin is quiet for a moment, and the arm around her shoulders tightens, holding her close, pressing her to him. “Things would have been much different between us,” he says. “And I don’t doubt that you and Harry both would have brought me such joy, but—” He hesitates, looking down at Darcy and resting his cheek atop her head. “At the cost of this… is that selfish?”

Darcy doesn’t answer for a long time. She listens to the crackling of the fire, the murmur of conversation coming from the floor below. She knows how Lupin feels, because she had thought it so many times before. Had wondered what a life with Lupin around would have been like, but at the cost of his love, his touches that make her toes curl, his kisses that make her dizzy. Perhaps it is selfish, to want him so much, to need him, and oftentimes she’s wondered if—had Lupin not known her parents—they would still love each other. After all, Darcy had latched onto him after their first real conversation, during a detention she’d been serving in his office. She’d latched onto the one thing left of her family, even if he wasn’t quite that. But had it not been for her parents, they never would have shared that common ground—Darcy would likely never have been able to be so open and honest about her feelings with him, and she likely would have just been one of many teenage girls at Hogwarts with a sad schoolgirl crush on her Professor.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her finally. “Sorry that I did nothing—sorry that I turned a blind eye to you and Harry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me. I know why you never came to us.”

Lupin puts the book on the ground at his side, his free hand taking her’s. “I struggled for a long time with my feelings for you,” he admits, getting her attention again. “And sometimes, I still think that I’ve wronged you, that I’ve wronged your parents and Sirius.” He inhales deeply, and Darcy’s feels his heart beat faster against his chest.

Darcy shifts, settling herself in Lupin’s lap. He doesn’t protest, and closes his eyes when she leans in to kiss him. She pulls away, wanting nothing more than to kiss him harder, deeper, but she brushes the tip of her nose against his. “Does it still feel wrong?”

“No,” he smiles.

“Then I’ll just have to kiss you all the time, won’t I?”

“I won’t stop you.”

They both laugh, and Darcy rests her cheek against his shoulder, looping her arms underneath his and closing her eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

“Snape is being particularly vindictive these days, I’ve noticed. And I’ve also noticed that you’ve failed to stop him tormenting me.”

Darcy smiles at Harry as Max rubs against her chin, allowing her to hold him in her arms. “What am I supposed to do? Scold him in the middle of class?”

The air is chill now at the start of October, the leaves changes colors in earnest now—the ones that haven’t already died anyway. The wind has started to pick up, the mornings crisp, the need for a fire in her fireplace constant. Darcy has since abandoned her pretty dresses and thin blouses underneath her robes, instead favoring sweaters and long sleeves, considering the even greater temperature drop when she sets foot in Snape’s classroom. Even up in the Owlery on this blustery Thursday morning, Darcy wishes they would have just gone down to the Great Hall for breakfast, where it’s warm and crowded and much more comfortable overall.

She hasn’t yet told Harry about the conversation she and Lupin had a few weeks ago after Gemma’s strange admission. She hadn’t wanted to worry Harry with anything they weren’t one hundred percent certain of, and Lupin had promised Darcy he’d talk to Dumbledore about it. Lupin hadn’t told her Dumbledore’s response to this information, nor had Dumbledore said anything her. The only thing Lupin said to her about it, “It’s taken care of. Don’t worry.” But Darcy feels that, if something was going to happen—if Dumbledore was worried something might happen—someone would surely let her know. She clings to this hope, using it to calm the feelings of guilt that gnaw away at her every time she refuses to tell her brother.

To make matters worse, Sirius still hasn’t replied to Harry’s letter. Darcy had though, if he was coming north, Hedwig would have been back already. Each morning at breakfast when the post owls come, Darcy had noticed Harry looking quite anxious, his eyes scanning the mass of owls, liking hoping for a reply from Sirius, as well. She’d even asked Lupin a few times if he thought Sirius might have been caught, but he had been so sure that if anything happened with Sirius, it would have been front page worthy news, and so far, the _Daily Prophet_ had kept silent. There are so many things that Darcy yearns to tell him, too, and the uncertainty of when she’ll be able to actually talk to him again weighs on her.

“Stay still,” Darcy coos, pulling out a piece of neatly rolled parchment from her pocket and making to tie it to Max’s leg. Max does as he’s told, still as a statue, one of his skinny legs held out to make things easier for her.

“Who’s that for?” Harry asks.

“Mr. Weasley,” Darcy answers quickly, stroking Max. “Rest, Max, and then go to him.” Max gives her an appeasing hoot and then flies up to the rafters, settling himself in a corner and immediately closing her eyes. Darcy turns back to Harry and they begin the descent back towards the Great Hall. “I want him to keep an eye on Emily. I’m worried.”

“Have you written to her?”

“Once, and she sent Max back without a reply,” Darcy sighs. She had been furious that day, irritable and anxious upon seeing Max fly into the Great Hall without an answer from Emily. All she wanted was reassurance that Emily was all right. Gemma says you’re working around the clock, she’d written, take a break, Emily. Darcy had been so angry that she’d given a second year a detention after spilling the contents of her potion on the front of her robes—she still isn’t sure whether she was allowed to or not, but Snape hadn’t corrected her or said anything to stop her. “I’m going to see her this weekend.”

“Does she know that?”

Darcy hesitates, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “Er—well, no.”

They make it to the Great Hall while breakfast is still going on, plates still half-full and students still bleary eyed. Harry wanders off to the Gryffindor table and Darcy heads towards her seat at the staff table, but not before ruffling his hair. Eyeing the few pages of discarded newspaper in front of Snape, Darcy clears her throat. “May I?”

Snape pushes the pages towards her and Darcy reads absently, eyes scanning over advertisements and wanted ads, career opportunities and articles on Quidditch. After Snape finishes with the article he’d been so invested in, he puts it down. “I have news,” Snape says, and Darcy lowers the paper, looking at him from overtop. “Walk with me to my classroom. I’d hate to be overheard.”

“What? News about what?” Darcy asks quickly, and then, gesturing to her empty plate, “I haven’t even had breakfast yet. Can it wait until after breakfast?”

He gets to his feet, raising his eyebrows to his hairline. Darcy sighs, accepting defeat, and closes the newspaper, tossing it down on the table in front of her. Following Snape through the Great Hall, other students begin to finish up their breakfasts, not so eager to attend their first classes of the day. Part of her is anxious, her heart pumping hard in her chest. She can’t shake the feeling that Snape’s news will involve Sirius—but how would Snape know about Sirius? Wouldn’t Dumbledore have been the first to know something? Dumbledore, who always knew everything?

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at the end of the month,” he says quietly, his pace slowing as Darcy catches up to him.

She blinks up at him, raising a single eyebrow, having expected something entirely different to come out of his mouth. “That means nothing to me.”

Snape gives her an impatient look, sighing. “Didn’t you listen to the Headmaster’s speech at the start of term feast?”

“No,” Darcy answers. “I was talking to you.”

“Students who are prepared to enter the tournament from the two different schools will be joining us for a good part of the school year,” he continues, his hands held in front of him. His footsteps seem to echo loudly throughout the empty corridor, and he waits for The Fat Friar to pass before continuing. The ghost passes them with a friendly smile that Snape does not return. “Which means that you will be on your best behavior—”

“Excuse me?” Darcy hisses, rolling her eyes. “My best behavior?”

“I will not have you making a fool of me while we host the Triwizard Tournament, is that understood?”

Darcy smiles innocently at Snape and he scowls at her. “When have I ever made a fool of you, Professor Snape?”

“You’re infuriating, Darcy.” He looks at her again down his long and hooked nose, his black eyes cold. “After all I’ve done for you, and this is how you—”

“Haven’t heard this before,” Darcy grumbles, resisting the urge to roll her eyes again. “Hold on, I’m quite good at this little speech of yours, and correct me if I get something wrong—” She clears her throat dramatically, and Snape raises his eyebrows, giving her another dangerous look, but not stopping her. “‘You should be thanking me on bended knee, kissing my boots for saving your life from that terrible, terrible monster. Let those scars serve as a reminder of all that I’ve done for you’—”

“Careful, Darcy,” Snape growls, not looking at all amused. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. I will have no lip from you while we have guests—there will be no eye rolling like a child, no mocking, no pinning stupid badges onto me—”

Darcy laughs. “I know you still have that badge in your desk drawer.”

“Don’t you dare go through my things again,” Snape retorts hotly. “You’ll be sorry—”

“Did you keep it out of respect for Hermione or for me?”

“ _Enough_ , Darcy.”

“Fine,” Darcy finishes, suddenly feeling much better and lighter on her feet. “I understand—I promise I’ll be a good girl.”

“Are you finished?”

“I think so.”

As they reach Snape’s classroom, he opens the door and holds it open for her, nearly slamming it shut behind him. Darcy waves her wand, lighting several candles and a fire in the hearth, giving the classroom a warmth that was always lacking when she was a student. “Do not think I will not hesitate to send you straight home,” he snarls, safe inside the classroom. “One wrong move, one wrong word, and I will make sure you will not be here for the remainder of the tournament.”

“No, you won’t,” Darcy says, seating herself atop one of the student tables, swinging her legs and tucking her hair behind her ears. “You’d miss me too much.”

They stare at each other until the sound of approaching footsteps echo outside the classroom door. “Are you done now?”

Darcy chuckles, hopping off the table as the door opens and a few students trickle inside, talking quietly amongst themselves. “Yes, I’m done.”

* * *

The Friday evening before Darcy plans on seeing Emily, she sits in front of the fire in her own room, fingering the rim of a wine glass, watching the crackling logs and dancing flames. Several times, she goes over her plan in her head, sipping at her wine.

_Meet Remus in London, buy food from the market to bring to Emily’s, try to convince him to come with me, give him the saddest face he’s ever seen when he refuses_.

Darcy knows that Emily wouldn’t like it—Lupin showing up on her doorstep, offering help during a time of need. But Darcy is afraid of going alone, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to act. What do you say to someone who’s mother has died? What would Darcy have wanted to be said to her? What words could have possibly given her reassurance after the death of her parents? Nothing Darcy can say or do will bring Mrs. Duncan back and she knows it. And what will she say to Mr. Duncan? Mr. Duncan, who is likely still grieving the death of his wife?

_Emily doesn’t deserve this._

Sleep does not come easily that night. Darcy feels lonely without a body to sleep next to. She reaches out to the undisturbed half of the bed, grabbing the bedsheet and squeezing. Unbidden thoughts come to her—thoughts of losing Lupin at the hands of Death Eaters—the very thing he was afraid of when he’d pleaded with her to keep hidden away at Hogwarts. What would she do without him? How could she live? How had she lived so long without him? Life would become a chore, she thinks. Getting out of bed would be the hardest thing she’s ever had to endure, knowing he’s no longer with her. Darcy wonders if that’s how Mr. Duncan feels—wonders if he’ll ever be able to love again.

She thinks of the things she would miss most—the sound of her name being whispered, an almost seductive thing, to hear him say her name; the smile that makes him look a young boy again, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he laughs. His soft croons of “good girl”, the feel of his lips on every part of her body. The love she feels when he worships her body, the way he makes her feel each time he smiles at her—a feeling that Darcy is sure no other man could possible make her feel.

Upon waking from her restless sleep, Darcy leaves the castle as quickly as possible, craving Lupin’s presence, hoping that just holding his hand will give her the strength to face Emily and her father during such a difficult times. She Disapparates from Hogsmeade, finding her footing again in an alley beside The Leaky Cauldron. When she walks out onto the main street to find Lupin already waiting for her, checking his watch and giving it a few hard taps.

He greets her with a kiss on the cheek, one that makes her skin burn hot, and they find the nearby market. Darcy, with what Muggle money she has left over from the summer, buys enough fresh food for a few meals. Darcy holds onto his hand the entire time, squeezing tightly.

“Your hand is sweaty,” Lupin chuckles, pulling his hand away from her to take some of the many bags hanging off her wrist. “Everything will be fine, my love. Don’t worry.”

“I’m good at worrying.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.” Darcy sighs, hooking her arm around his as they leave, laden with shopping bags. “Please come with me, Remus. Please don’t make me go alone.”

“I’m sure Emily will take it as a personal affront upon seeing that you’ve brought me,” he smiles sadly down at her. Darcy rests her cheek against his arm, frowning. “She’ll be happy to see you, Darcy.”

Darcy looks up at him, but Lupin quickly looks away, laughing.

“Don’t you dare try and guilt trip me into coming,” he teases. “You know I have such a hard time refusing you anything.”

“Look at me.”

“If I look, all will be lost. I know better than to look at you when you want something.” Darcy persists for a few more moments, and Lupin glances at her for a split second. “You’re damn cute, though.” He kisses her, butterflies erupting in her stomach as he smiles against her lips.

He bids her a reluctant goodbye around the corner from Emily’s home, kissing her several times and peppering her face with sweet ones. Darcy giggles, missing the feeling of his beard rubbing against her face. And then he’s gone and Darcy is alone again and the feeling of dread overcomes her, especially as she walks the path to Emily’s front door.

Darcy has never felt such overwhelming anxiety at Emily’s before, not even the first time she’d visited. But she raises a hand and knocks anyway, waiting for someone to fetch her, praying that they’ll hurry, as the bags are really starting to hurt her hands, wrists, and arms. She feels foolish, not having planned this, and she starts to wonder if Emily is even home. Mr. Duncan’s handsome car is parked outside of the garage, and Darcy is suddenly very wary about seeing him face to face again, afraid to see the state in which he’s been for weeks—almost months now.

The door swings open, revealing, not Mr. Duncan, but Emily. They look at each other for a moment and Emily leans against the doorframe, sizing Darcy up, looking at her as if she’s a ghost. The sight of Emily shocks her—she’d expected Emily to be disheveled, sickly, weak, depressed, but she looks nothing of the sort. Emily looks radiant, her blonde hair shining as the sun catches it, combed and curled; if anything, she looks stonier than normal, her eyes glossed over, her lips right.

Emily seems to come to her senses, stepping through the doorway onto the small step with Darcy, closing the door behind her. She wraps her arms around herself. “What are you doing here, Darcy?”

Darcy opens her mouth to answer, but closes it. She swallows hard, holding up the shopping bags. Emily’s eyes flick from Darcy’s face to the bags and back again. “I thought I could make you dinner tonight,” she says, but Emily doesn’t respond. “You didn’t answer my letter.”

Still without answering, Emily puts her hand on the doorknob and lets Darcy inside. When she’s completely inside the foyer, Darcy stops in her tracks, looking around. She can see straight into the kitchen, just a small part of it, but enough to see that there are dirty dishes stacked up beside and in the sink; plates still filled with food occupy the kitchen table. To Darcy’s right, in the living room, beer cans and half-empty cigarette packs litter every inch of table space. The television is turned on, but no one is watching it. She walks herself fully into the kitchen to put the food away, horrified. What once was a beautiful, pristine home is now a sty, uncared for, dirty, the trash overflowing from the bin. Emily doesn’t accompany Darcy, but makes her way up the stairs, back to her bedroom. Darcy hurriedly puts away the food and follows Emily.

Even Emily’s bedroom is messy; clothes, clean or dirty, are thrown on the floor instead of hung neatly in her closet, two empty bottles of wine sit on her nightstand along with an empty wine glass, her desk is covered with clippings out of the Daily Prophet, handwritten notes, flyers, wanted pictures of wizards (and Darcy feels a rush of affection for Emily upon seeing that Sirius is not on a single one of them).

“Emily, how can you live like this?” Darcy asks, unable to stop herself. She sits gingerly on the foot of Emily’s bed, watching Emily pace frantically, not really doing anything. She looks under her bed for something, flips through the piles of papers on her desk. With unwarranted roughness, Emily opens her desk drawer, pulling a pen out from it and a piece of blanket paper, sitting down on the chair and putting the tip down to write. “Emily, stop it.”

“I’m very busy,” Emily replies curtly. “You shouldn’t have come. I’ve a lot of work to do and—”

“Emily, look at me.”

“I really should be getting back to the Ministry soon anyway—they really do need all the help they can get and Tonks has promised to take me—”

“Emily—”

“You can stay here, but I probably will be back late and—”

“Emily,” Darcy says again, and when Emily continues to ramble, she raises her voice. “Emily, _stop_!”

And she does. Emily quiets immediately, turning her head very slowly to look at Darcy.

Chest heaving, Darcy looks around the bedroom and smiles incredulously when she meets Emily’s eyes again. Darcy adopts a softer tone when she continues. “What are you doing?”

Emily doesn’t seem to have an answer. She only looks at Darcy with eyes so cold they could rival Snape’s.

“Why didn’t you answer my letter?”

“What did you want me to say?” Emily whispers. “I’ve been killing myself with work, and I’ve picked up a few of mom’s old shifts at the _Prophet_ , mostly editing, but…” She trails off, looking away from Darcy. “Why did you come here, Darcy?”

“To check on you,” Darcy says, her brow furrowed. “I came here to make sure you were all right, and I come to find this is how you’ve been living—in filth, leaving your dad at home. He needs you, Emily.”

Emily’s eyes well with tears and she flushes, her face blotchy red. “How do I do it?” she pleads. “How do you do it? How do I live after this? When does it stop hurting?”

Darcy feels a great sense of sadness, remembering a better time—what seems a much easier time. She remembers sitting on Lupin’s sofa, telling him about the things that plagued her nightmares, the things she could remember every time she closed her eyes.

“ _When will it end? How much longer will I have to suffer?_ ”

He had looked at her with a slight frown, with a curious expression. His eyes had seemed to see more than just her face—he’d understood her sufferings, understood her pain, her desire for the suffering to end. And what was it that he had told her?

“The suffering never ends,” Darcy whispers, more to herself than to Emily. “But you learn to live with it.”

Emily looks at her as if she finds these words the worst thing Darcy could have said.

“It never stops hurting, Emily,” she says again. “But you think I had the chance to grieve? The day after my parents died, I was responsible for my baby brother. It took me years to find a peace with what happened, and it’s a shaky sense of peace even now. You should take some time for yourself. Grieve properly. Give yourself time to heal before killing yourself with work.”

Darcy urges Emily into bed after a long silence. Emily obliges, crawling under the blankets and getting comfortable. With her father somewhere hidden away in the house, Darcy spends the afternoon cleaning the house, not using magic to drag out the hours. She goes around with a trash bag, picking up all the empty cans and bottle, throwing away old food. She does the dishes and puts them away, dusts the tables and sweeping the floors. Darcy scrubs the countertops, wipes out the inside of their refrigerator, vacuums the carpets. By the time she finishes, the sun has begun to set, and she pulls out the food she’d brought and sets to work in silence, trying not to think, trying to focus on chopping the vegetables, seasoning the pork, setting the oven to the proper temperature.

It isn’t until the pork is nearly done and she’s tossing a salad when there are footsteps behind her. She turns, expecting Emily, but it’s Mr. Duncan standing in the doorway, eyes bloodshot and face sunken and gaunt, looking bewildered.

“Darcy,” he breathes, looking around the kitchen. “When did you get here?”

“A few hours ago.” She turns back to the salad, not wanting to look at Mr. Duncan’s pathetic face.

“Did you do this?”

“Yes.”

“You cleaned the house?”

“Yes.”

“Are you cooking dinner?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Duncan is quiet. Darcy puts the finished salad on the table, making towards the cupboard to pull down some plates. “You—you didn’t have to—Darcy, why would you—?”

Darcy looks at him, three plates in her arms. She can’t think of an adequate response, so she shrugs.

“You—you—” Mr. Duncan seems at a loss for words. “You are a good friend to Emily, Darcy.”

She smiles weakly, setting the table. She pulls the meat out of the oven and it sizzles and sings, the smell incredible. Darcy looks it over, admiring her work. Letting it rest for a few minutes, Darcy turns back around, leaning against the counter and looking at Mr. Duncan. He hasn’t moved from the threshold, his eyes fixed on her. She’s always thought Mr. Duncan handsome, but he’s near unrecognizable now, scruffy and dirty, hair lank and unwashed. And then Darcy makes her decision, not wanting anymore time to talk herself out of it.

“Mr. Duncan, I have to tell you something.”

Mr. Duncan tilts his head, but sits down at the kitchen table, offering Darcy a seat. She sits, hands starting to shakes. She wipes her palms on her pants. “Go on, darling,” Mr. Duncan prompts her. “What is it?”

“I—” Darcy hesitates. How is she supposed to tell him? Mr. Duncan is a Muggle, with little to no knowledge of Harry and what they’d survived. To explain that Mrs. Duncan is dead because Darcy failed to tell anyone about a dream her brother had—what would he think? Wouldn’t he think they were both crazy? And at the last moment, Darcy feels a coward. “I’m just glad to see you.”

He looks at her for a long time, very seriously, as if he knows she is hiding something from him. Then, he reaches out and pats one of her hands, standing up. “You’re a sweet girl, Darcy,” he sighs. “Why don’t you go wake Emily? I’ll finish setting the table and I’ll cut that roast for you.”

Darcy nods, a lump in her throat. “Yes, Mr. Duncan.”


	20. Chapter 20

Darcy wakes early the next morning, and alone. She rolls over in Emily’s bed to find her gone, along with a lot of her papers that had been stacked on her desk. Sighing, Darcy lays back on the pillow, closing her eyes again.

Emily had cried all through the night, cried into Darcy’s shoulder as she held her. Darcy hadn’t spoken, only laid there until her arms felt dead and asleep from Emily curled up in them.

How many years had they been in that same position, but it was Emily who had held her, typically after a nightmare or something that had triggered a horrific memory. Emily had always let Darcy cry, had fallen asleep with Darcy in her arms, and now it’s Darcy’s turn. But this is hard—why hadn’t Emily ever told her how hard it was to listen and watch her best friend cry herself to sleep? Darcy had been overcome with grief at the sound of Emily’s sobs, wanting nothing more than to have arms wrapped around her, as well.

Darcy wanders the house while Mr. Duncan sleeps, his bedroom door shut at the end of the hall and likely locked. The entire house is silent, and Darcy has learned in the last few years how to move about silently, instinctively walking on her toes while she climbs down the stairs and into the kitchen. She moves to the sink, filling it with soap and water to wash the dishes from the previous night’s dinner when she sees an owl fluttering around through the window, out by the shed where she’d once led Max. Turning the water off, she walks automatically out through the sliding glass door that leads to the shed, but she isn’t prepared for what she finds inside.

All of Emily’s canvases, blank and painted on, have been moved to the shed. Pictures of Mrs. Duncan—both still and moving ones—adorn one canvas, where Emily seems to have sketched an outline of her mother, lacking any color. Another canvas is splattered with every color Darcy knows, as if Emily had done it in a rage. The pictures make Darcy sad, and she tries not to picture Emily alone in this shed, painting with little light and the smell of owl constantly present. Darcy spots pictures of herself with Emily, Emily and Gemma and Carla, drawings and doodles on spare parchment that Emily had done in particularly boring classes. Darcy looks through all the pictures hanging in the shed, admires the paintings Emily has done. There are still empty paint cans on the ground, pallets with dried paint, paint brushes stuck in old cans full of murky water. Darcy spends almost an hour inside until she can handle the silence no longer.

The smell of breakfast cooking brings Mr. Duncan down into the kitchen. This time, he doesn’t hesitate in the doorway, but stands at the stove beside Darcy. His hair is wet, pushed back out of his cleanly shaven face. “Would you like some help?”

“No, thank you,” Darcy smiles, not looking away from the eggs in the pan. “I’ve got it.”

“Where’s Emily?”

“Gone.”

Mr. Duncan hums his answer, watching Darcy stir the eggs around, eyeing the bacon on a plate nearby. “She works a lot. My Emily, she—” He doesn’t finish his sentence and Darcy doesn’t question him for an answer.

When Darcy takes out two plates for them, Mr. Duncan fills his with as much food as he can. They sit together at the table, eating in silence. And then Mr. Duncan lowers his fork, sighing heavily. “Is it all right?” she asks, frowning.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Darcy doesn’t know how to answer, afraid of what he’ll say if she answers truly. _I’m in love now, with Remus, aren’t I_? Then why don’t the words come easily to her lips? She only opens and closes her mouth like a fish gasping for water, looking foolish and childish and caught off guard.

“No, you’re only a child…” He sits back in his seat, studying her. It’s an odd sight to see Mr. Duncan looking so serious. “But you have lost people you loved. Do you remember any of it? Or do you only remember the pain that came with that loss?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Um,” she says, and she flushes, trying to keep her tears at bay. “I had only just turned five. I don’t remember much of it.” But even now, sitting at the Duncans’ kitchen table, it’s hard not to remember the flash of green light that preceded her mother’s untimely death. But she feels guilty for lying to him, especially after the death of his wife, so she shakes her head. “No—I’m sorry—people have asked me so much and I—I do remember. I remember it. The pain most of all. I miss my mother and father very much.” The words feel forced—of course she misses them, but talking so openly about them with Mr. Duncan feels foreign and awkward.

He holds his hands on the table. “I loved Beth.” There’s a heavy silence that falls over them. Darcy wants so desperately to stand up and walk away, to leave this conversation, but she’s frozen in her seat. Mr. Duncan has always been cheerful, always been wide eyed and smiling and joking. “Twenty-one years I spent with her, and I’ll never get another one. Can you imagine that?”

Darcy’s eyes sting as tears well up in them. She looks away, feeling suddenly ashamed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Duncan,” she rasps. “No, I suppose I can’t imagine it.”

“Darcy,” Mr. Duncan says, rubbing his face with his palms. Darcy’s eyes flick back to him at the sound of her name. When he looks back at her, his face seems to have hardened. Darcy doesn’t take her eyes off him, wishing she hadn’t come here—hating herself for coming alone. “What you wanted to say last night…” He pauses for a long time. “Did it have anything to do with Beth?”

Darcy can’t see any way out of this conversation this time. She can only look at Mr. Duncan with tears in her eyes, the familiar feeling of guilt creeping up on her, taking her by surprise. “Yes.”

Mr. Duncan nods, running a hand through his hair exasperatedly. He clears his throat. “Darcy, I do not know much about you. I know that you are a kind girl, a very lonely girl, a very loving girl. And I know that your brother is very famous in your world, and I know why.” He watches her carefully as she wipes her tears away, looking down at her plate. “When Emily told us that you would be visiting for the first time, my Beth was very surprised. Told me about what had happened to you and your brother all those years ago. Made Emily promise that she hadn’t been pestering you for details or asking questions. And she hadn’t, had she?”

“No,” is all Darcy can say.

“That man who brought Emily home that night—”

“Mr. Weasley.”

He nods again. “Mr. Weasley,” he repeats softly. “Told me that the people who killed—” He stops again, rubs his face. “They were Voldemort’s supporters.”

Darcy is quiet, the tears still coming, not wanting to sit and listen to Mr. Duncan add things up—not wanting him to come to the conclusion that it’s her fault on his own, for surely that’s the only reasonable explanation for what happened to his wife.

“Thirteen years he’d been gone, he said,” Mr. Duncan continues. “And all of a sudden, they’re back, and my Beth is dead, and—” Mr. Duncan leans forward, and Darcy feels a sense of dread overcome her. She will have to tell him now, everything. “What do you know about this, Darcy?”

It’s much harder to say the words than Darcy had thought. She wipes her tears again, wanting to curl up in bed, to sleep forever, maybe with someone beside her to hold her hand.

“Sweetheart,” Mr. Duncan urges her. “What do you know about this?”

It suddenly seems very odd that Mr. Duncan doesn’t know much about what happened. Darcy had confided in Emily the contents of Harry’s dream, and she feels a great rush of affection towards her for having kept the secret. “Harry had a dream,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “A dream about Voldemort, and when he woke up, his scar was hurting.”

Mr. Duncan doesn’t look to understand her. Darcy feels it would take a lot of explaining to make Mr. Duncan understand, but she persists.

“He dreamt that Voldemort was talking about killing him,” Darcy continues, feeling embarrassed. “And Harry thought he remembered something about Quidditch, and when his scar hurt, I was thinking, well, I thought that maybe—” She begins to cry harder, remembering the look on Mrs. Duncan’s unmoving face when she’d found Emily after the Death Eaters retreated. “Emily wanted to tell someone, and I was afraid—I didn’t want people to wonder about Harry, and I thought it might have just been a dream and I’m so sorry, Mr. Duncan—I’m so—so sorry—”

She attempts to calm herself down while Mr. Duncan digests this, and she knows what conclusion he’s coming to before he says anything. Mr. Duncan watches her cry, eyes not leaving her face for a second. He holds his clasped hands to his mouth, his face stony. And finally he stands, putting his hands on his hips and sighing heavily. “Darcy, I appreciate all that you’ve done here,” he murmurs, looking at his shoes. “But this is something Emily and I need to handle alone, as a family. Perhaps it would be best if you left.”

Darcy barely registers what he’s saying for a moment. She opens her mouth to protest, to beg his forgiveness, to ask if she can at least stay until Emily comes home, but no words come out. She flushes, getting to her feet. She walks past him back towards the staircase, her long legs carrying her three stairs at a time until she reaches the landing, where she runs into Emily’s room and throws her things together.

Without saying anything further to Mr. Duncan, Darcy leaves the house, walking down the quiet street just for something to do. Humiliated and feeling shamed, Darcy’s chest heaves as her heart races and she sits down on the curb, holding a hand to her heart. She sobs openly in the street, holding her face in her hands and letting out a muffled scream. It’s only when her tears begin to finally slow and her throat is sore from crying that she stands up and Disapparates.

The first thing she noticed when she appears exactly where she wants to be is the lack of smoke coming from the chimney of the cottage, just the very sight of it comforting and familiar and warm. For a split second, Darcy fears he isn’t home, but then sees him through the window, his back to her.

When she knocks, he receives her without question.

Ten minutes later, armed with a mug of hot cocoa, warmed by a fire blazing in the hearth, and having given him a hundred tearful kisses, Darcy tells Lupin about her time at Emily’s, recalling the exact words Mr. Duncan had spoken to her—how he had made her loss seem so insignificant, how he had hurt her with his talk of suffering as if she knew nothing of it, how he had embarrassed her by asking her to leave after she’d cleaned their home, cooked them meals, came to check in on them.

“He’s struggling to cope with his wife’s death,” Lupin replies after she finishes, his voice low. He kisses her forehead. “People mad with grief will say or do or believe anything to help ease the pain. Surely you know the feeling of shifting blame onto other people in order to ease the suffering?”

Darcy frowns, wishing he hadn’t asked her that. “I was only a child,” she rasps. “I wasn’t allowed to grieve. That was different, and yet I still took care of Harry. They aren’t doing anything to help each other.”

“Not everyone is like you,” Lupin answers. “Everyone grieves differently, Darcy. If space is what he wants, then allow him that.”

She looks at him, studying his face for a long time. Darcy knows now why Lupin had been so afraid of losing her—Darcy can’t begin to imagine the pain that would come with losing him the way Mr. Duncan lost his wife. “He blames me.”

“Because you blame yourself,” Lupin sighs. “It’s far easier to shift the blame onto someone who is willing to accept it.” He pauses, searching her face for an answer to his next question. “You don’t truly believe it was your fault, do you?”

But Darcy says nothing, and Lupin takes that for her answer.

“None of that was your fault, I told you,” he says. “They didn’t do that because you were there—I don’t know that any of them realized you were there. People would have laughed in your face if you told them about a dream Harry had.” There’s another pause. “Sometimes terrible things just happen, and there is no one to blame but those terrible people.”

“I’m afraid,” she confesses. “I’m afraid of being without you. Sometimes I feel you’re my only true friend. No one else understands me the way you do. They all think I’m crazy.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” Lupin shrugs casually, but he looks flattered, “that your friends don’t understand what you’ve been through.” But Darcy isn’t very reassured by these words, so he tries again. “No one thinks you’re crazy, especially not your friends. They’re just worried about you.”

Darcy looks away from him. “Let’s run away,” she says sadly, taking his hand in her’s and twining their fingers together. “Go somewhere were no one would ever bother us. We’d never have to worry about anything ever again.”

“A tempting offer.”

“We could go to another country, change our names.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Darcy brushes her thumb over his knuckles and sets down her cup of hot cocoa on the table. “It’s lonely at Hogwarts,” she tells him, pulling her knees to her chest and letting go of his hand. “It’s hard to sleep at night, and when I wake up in the middle of the night, I’m always alone. Sometimes I reach out for you, hoping you’ll be there.”

Lupin smiles weakly, his cheeks turning faintly pink. It’s endearing, Darcy thinks, and it melts her heart. “I have to admit,” he answers sheepishly, “that I’ve come to appreciate the appeal of having someone to sleep next to. It’s lonely here without you.”

She wonders what would really happen if she left Hogwarts for this. What could anyone _really_ do about it? Dumbledore would likely be disappointed—if anything, disappointed in her ability to finish out the year, to see through her commitment. Snape would likely be glad to be rid of her—‘a thorn in his side’, he’d called her before, and ‘the bane of his existence’. She knows the general response would almost certainly be disappointment, especially upon finding out what Darcy would be leaving Hogwarts for—to spend the rest of her years waking beside her parents’ old friend, to spend the rest of her years fucking him and loving him and holding him and kissing him.

But really, the only person’s opinion that would really, truly matter to her would be Harry’s. And Harry, fourteen-years-old and sweet and kind and full of love, would likely tell her to _go_ , that he’ll be _fine_ , that she should do what she wants to do. But if she were to stay with Lupin, Darcy can’t shake the feeling she’d be abandoning Harry—the little brother that, as a baby, she’d fed when he cried at night, fell asleep curled up in her lap on the sofa sometimes, would wrap his arms around her legs and hide behind. She knows that trouble follows Harry, and with the stakes so high now—to leave him, to potentially abandon him when danger looms so close now, seems a waste of her life. If something were to happen to Harry, what was it all for? All those sleepless nights as a child and the exhausting days?

“How long do I have you for, then?” Lupin asks, and Darcy’s head clears almost instantly at the sound of his voice. “Or are you returning to Hogwarts now?”

“No,” Darcy says, making her decision right away. “A few hours.”

“I’ll take it.” He inches closer to her on the sofa, close enough to kiss her in earnest, hard on the mouth.

Darcy squirms against him and Lupin pulls away. “That’s all we are, aren’t we? Just lonely people.”

“I’m not lonely,” Lupin says quietly, brushing back her hair. “Not anymore.”

Darcy allows Lupin to kiss her tears away, allows him to lead her back to the bedroom and undress her with gentle hands and tender touches. He murmurs words of comfort and reassurance and praise and love into her skin, makes her laugh and solicits soft moans from her as his lips make their way from her lips down her body. Darcy writhes on the bed, combing her fingers through his hair, his fingers digging deep into her hips to keep her still. His laughter tickles her flesh, laughter that gives her butterflies, that makes her infinitely glad to be with him. The sight of the smile on his face when she cries out for him makes Darcy blush, which only makes him smile wider.

And when they finish—Darcy’s legs trembling uncontrollably, her stomach in knots, and feeling like she could fall asleep almost instantly—Lupin settles his cheek against her stomach, closing his eyes and letting her continue to run her fingers through his hair, damp with sweat. His thumbs caress the smooth skin of her hips, and Darcy closes her eyes as well, nearly lulled to sleep by his touch. She looks down at him, half of his legs hanging awkwardly off the foot of his bed, his body held in place by her shaky thighs. Darcy can’t help but to smile, to admire this man between her legs, to wish things could be different—that she could be someone else with no other responsibilities, with a clear future that involves nothing but _this_.

Lupin presses a kiss to her stomach, shifting slightly. Darcy watches the muscles in his back strain as he moves, and she reaches out without thinking, tracing the scars on his shoulder blades, running her fingertips down his spine as far as she can reach. A few months ago, while she was a student, all she wanted was to be able to touch him, and now she can and Darcy still isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

“Come back with me,” she whispers, bringing her fingers back up his back. “I don’t want to be lonely anymore.”

Lupin looks up at her, propping his chin on her stomach. He smiles. “I can’t,” he replies. “And I was going to surprise you, but—it’s hard keeping things from you.”

“What?”

“Gemma happened to write to me a little while ago,” he begins, and Darcy frowns. This prompts him to chuckle and he grazes his fingers across her thigh, giving her goosebumps. “She explained that she’ll be at Hogwarts a few days a week, and to keep a close eye on me, St Mungo’s has given her a budget to do so.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll be at Hogsmeade the week of the full moon,” he finishes, kissing just below her breasts. “And the next five full moons after that.”

Darcy can’t help but to smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

She feels suddenly ashamed for thinking Lupin is her only true friend, when Gemma has done nothing but help and support her—and Lupin, as well. Remembering to thank Gemma the next time she sees her, Darcy sighs happily. “I love you, do you know that?”

“I do,” he answers, taking her hands in his. “And as much as I think you’re insane for it, I never get tired of hearing you say it.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

“How could he say that?”

“Pretty easily, it seemed.”

“And you haven’t heard from Emily? She hasn’t written you?”

“You think her dad won’t let her?”

“Since when has a man been able to tell Emily she can’t do anything? Even her own father?” Carla swallows her mouthful of food, choking a little as it goes down. She takes a sip of the wine Darcy had so generously procured for their dinner, licking her lips. “She’ll come round. She always does. They’re both sick with grief—give them time. You must sympathize with them.”

“I do, but—” Darcy sighs, unable to eat anymore, not because she’s eaten too much, but her appetite is gone. “I also know what grieving wrongly does to someone. I would have gladly welcomed someone to care for me after mum and dad died.”

“You were also five-years-old,” Carla counters, and Darcy frowns. “Emily’s mum and dad were together for a long time, and Emily’s eighteen and—the shock of not having her around after so long… and Mr. Duncan is a Muggle—he doesn’t understand about You-Know-Who and Harry’s scar and everything. It must be especially hard for him.”

“Why aren’t you backing me up on this?” Darcy asks incredulously, angry that Carla’s attempt at making her see sense is working. “You’re supposed to tell me that what he did was wrong. You are my friend, aren’t you?”

“If you wanted someone to baby you, you should have asked Harry to come.”

Darcy blushes furiously. “I don’t need to be babied,” she retorts hotly. “I just want to hear that maybe what he did was cruel.”

“Of course it was,” Carla says, pushing a few dark curls out of her face. “It was hurtful and insensitive, but they never asked you to come to their house, either. You just showed up on the doorstep of people who lost their mother and wife not so long ago and expected them to be overjoyed at your appearance.”

“Emily and I are best friends,” Darcy protests. “If I were her, I would have happy to see my best friend.”

“People grieve in different ways,” Carla says, firmly this time. “You had to keep going—with Harry, you didn’t have a choice. It’s different for them.”

There’s a heavy pause that weighs over them for a few minutes, the only sound the chinking of cutlery, the splash of wine being poured, the adjusting of seats. Then Carla breaks the silence once more. “How’s Lupin? Gemma still using him as her pet project?”

“It’s not like that,” Darcy answers feebly. She fingers the rim of her wine glass, staring at the dark red liquid within. “It was very—” Darcy scrunches her nose, unable to find a single criticism. “It was very well done and professional.”

“Did you expect anything less from Gemma?”

Darcy shrugs, remembering the way Gemma had touched him so easily, without hesitation. How she’d put her hand up with shirt without warning and without so much as batting an eye. “She touched him a lot.”

“Since when has Gemma ever been bashful with her hands on a boy?” Carla laughs, her wine glass barely touching her lips when she sees the look on Darcy’s face and lowers it quickly. Wine sloshes over the sides onto the table, but Carla doesn’t seem to notice. “Darcy Potter, are you jealous?”

“No!” Darcy snaps, feeling hot all over. “I mean—maybe a little, but—you should have seen the way she was touching him like she’d done it so many times before!”

Carla continues to laugh. “Gemma would never try and steal him from you.”

“I know she wouldn’t, but—Gemma’s quite pretty, isn’t she? Not quite pretty—very pretty?” Darcy groans. “How many necks has she broken just walking down the corridors here? Truly?”

“Of course she’s pretty, Darcy, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Carla responds, waving an airy hand. “As terrible as it is, Gemma’s family would disown her if they ever caught wind of something romantic between she and a werewolf. Plus she’s your best friend—Gemma abides by the girl code.”

“The girl code?” Darcy asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Right, so remember fourth year? Or, your fifth year, I guess. Emily was going out with Ben, remember? Gemma was in love with him, and I think Ben fancied her too, but anyway—”

“Emily only went out with Ben so he’d look over her Ancient Runes work,” Darcy interrupts. “She didn’t actually like him.”

“Right, and Gemma knew that,” Carla continues, as if there hadn’t been an interruption. “But she still didn’t go after Ben even after they’d broken up.”

“No offense, Carla,” Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair, exasperated. “But I think this is a little different from when we were fifteen and sixteen.”

“Gemma’s still the same,” Carla says.

“Remember what she said?” Darcy insists, and Carla smiles at her. “She said she’d like to kiss him, _and_ she told me she thought he has a nice ass.”

Carla’s smile falters and it’s her turn to look exasperated. “Why are you so worried about Gemma? No one is going to try and steal him from you and you know it.”

“Even you?”

“Oh my god,” Carla chuckles. “Especially not me.”

Darcy can’t help but laugh with her. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asks again. “Is he truly that repulsive to you? He’s handsome, charming and witty and smart—”

“I can appreciate a handsome man, Darcy,” Carla jokes. “He’s plain looking.”

“Ouch,” Darcy scoffs, and Carla throws a sprout at her across the table. “That’s cruel.”

“It’s not cruel to give an opinion on someone’s appearance,” Carla teases. “I didn’t say he was ugly. But enough of this—you shouldn’t worry about how I see him, anyway.”

“And why not?”

“I don’t like boys.”

Darcy blinks a few times, staring into Carla’s rich brown eyes, unsure if she’s heard correctly. “I’m sorry,” she blurts out. “What?”

“Darcy, I like girls.” Despite Carla’s serious tone, she’s still smiling.

“But—you—you never told me that!”

Carla shrugs innocently, her cheeks darkening. “You never asked.”

* * *

“Miss me, Madam Pomfrey?”

As soon as the doors of the infirmary open, the matron gives a tired sigh. Gemma walks into the hospital wing—or more like struts—and the sight makes Darcy grin. Gemma looks more like herself than the last few times Darcy’s seen her, even if she still looks a bit tired. Clad in handsome and rich looking emerald green robes, Gemma saunters up to the bed Darcy’s sitting on, looking at Madam Pomfrey, smiling from ear to ear. She’d been waiting nearly thirty minutes, skipping lunch for a glimpse of Gemma, her stomach growling.

“Can I call you Poppy now?” Gemma asks, pulling Darcy to her feet by her hands and holding her to her chest, arms wrapped tight around Darcy’s shoulders. The faint smell of stale smoke on her is comforting. When Madam Pomfrey only purses her lips, Gemma laughs. “All right—we’re not there yet. But we’ll get there.”

“Congratulations, Smythe,” Madam Pomfrey says, and Darcy—her head still resting on Gemma’s shoulder—suppresses another smile. There’s something behind Madam Pomfrey’s curt words that makes Darcy think she is quite glad to see Gemma again. Infamous for hangovers and an illness Madam Pomfrey has never been able to diagnose (though Darcy is well aware it flared whenever there had been a test in class or homework due that Gemma hadn’t prepared for), Gemma has likely spent more time in the hospital wing than even Darcy. “St Mungo’s was kind to notify me of your return far enough in advance for me to mentally prepare.”

She pats Gemma on the shoulder regardless. “Did Darcy tell you what I’m doing?”

“Thankfully, Potter hasn’t been a frequent visitor this year.”

“There’s still time,” Gemma answers quickly. “Professor Lupin is helping with some research on werewolves. We’re testing potions to help with the sickness around full moons.”

“How very ambitious of you,” Madam Pomfrey notes, raising her eyebrows and looking at Gemma with slight approval.

Gemma releases Darcy and does a mock curtsey. “I _was_ a Slytherin, after all.”

“It’s inventory day,” Madam Pomfrey says, gathering her robes and starting to walk back towards her office. “Ten minutes and then come to my office. We need to see what we’re in need of.”

As soon as the door to Madam Pomfrey’s office closes again, they both turn to each other. Darcy speaks first, looking Gemma up and down. “You look really good!”

“Thanks,” Gemma smiles. “I got a haircut. And I almost got my nose pierced—some girl came into St Mungo’s and had her’s done, but when I told mum about it, she freaked.”

“No,” Darcy laughs, taking Gemma’s hands to squeeze them for a moment. “I mean—yes, your hair looks good. You look good, Gemma.”

Gemma gives her a very knowing look. “I’m—” she hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “I’m coming to terms with everything. I know I was taking it pretty hard, but—I’m helping, you know? I can’t fight outright, but I’m doing my part at St Mungo’s.”

“You’ve always been a rebel,” Darcy sighs happily.

“In my own way, yeah—I suppose I am,” Gemma says, puffing her chest out. “What’s a more badass way to rebel than to heal the people your parents are trying to kill?”

Gemma laughs again, but Darcy falters. The joke doesn’t seem to bother Gemma, who has always seemed to have thick skin and the ability to deflect any joke or insult meant for her, but it makes Darcy uneasy. “You’re doing a good thing,” Darcy says quietly, and Gemma thanks her. “Remus told me you were able to secure him a room for next week.”

“ _Bastard_ ,” Gemma groans, running a hand through her hair. “I told him to keep it a secret! I wanted to surprise you—you know, one night you and I go to dinner at the Three Broomsticks and all of a sudden, he’s there and—”

“I get it,” Darcy answers, shaking her head and chuckling again. “I appreciate it, truly. But you didn’t have to do that.”

“Ah, the hospital allowed me a budget for easy access to my client, and anyway—I scratch his back and he scratches mine, right? One day I may need a huge favor, and he’ll just so happen to owe me a huge favor.” Gemma puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t tell him this, but it took quite a bit of convincing. Madam Rosmerta was pretty hesitant about having him stay during the full moon, but Dumbledore said he could use the Whomping Willow’s access to reach the Shrieking Shack during the actual full moon. She said as long as he’s out during the night, he can stay.”

“You got Dumbledore involved?” Darcy asks, slightly shocked and yet impressed. “You just—asked Dumbledore if Remus could stay?”

“I mean—yeah,” Gemma shrugs. “He was really kind about it, too. I’ve never really spoken to Dumbledore like that before, but he listened to what I had to say and we came to an agreement. He even promised to donate to our cause the next time he visited his vault, which will be great! We may be able to get fresher ingredients for the potions and better quality ones overall. If truth be told, we weren’t given a huge budget to begin with, so we’ve been using a lot of our own money on the—”

“This research is being funded by your own money?” Darcy interrupts, crossing her arms over her chest. “You shouldn’t!”

“It’s not that much,” Gemma replies coolly. “And anyway, what does it matter? Once this study breaks, I’ll have offers from hospitals all over the world—and they’ll pay much better, too. But I’ve been growing rather fond of St Mungo’s, in all honesty, and I’m near all my friends.”

Darcy digests all of this. Rarely have Gemma ever talked so quickly and so passionately about something—the spark in her reminds Darcy almost of Carla. “Why are you doing this?” Darcy finally says, and it comes out a bit harsher than she would have liked. “Do you actually want to help him, or is it about money? I don’t understand.”

“This is what I’ve always wanted,” Gemma smiles, unfazed by Darcy’s accusation. “As far back as I can remember, I’ve wanted to do this. And I’m not only doing it, but I’m _good_ at it. I enjoy it. Helping find a cure to lycanthropy symptoms that rarely anyone has even bothered to research is _exciting_ to me. Of course I’d like to help him in the end—you love him, don’t you? And money will always be a perk.”

“I’m happy for you.” But the words are forced and sound insincere. Gemma’s smile falters, but Madam Pomfrey falls her over and she doesn’t get a chance to reply.

As Darcy walks back to Snape’s classroom for her first class after lunch, she can’t help but feel unsettled by her meeting with Gemma. Gemma truly does love what she’s doing, and the excitement had been plain enough across her face. Whenever Darcy speaks of her experience with Snape’s classes to Lupin or to Carla or to Harry, it’s never with the same fervor—there’s always something to complain about, whether it’s the way Snape treats her, or the way a student spoke to her rudely and out of turn. She thinks of Emily, training to become an Auror—her dream all throughout school—and of Gemma excelling at her own dream. Darcy had always known Gemma was born and bred for greatness, and people had always told Darcy the same thing: You’ll do great things, Darcy Potter. Her teachers had told her, her friends had told her, people who knew her that she didn’t know had told her that.

_Is this greatness?_ she asks herself. _Sitting in a dungeon classroom with Severus Snape_?

For the first time in a while, Darcy starts to worry about Sirius again. How wonderful it would be to see his face, let alone receive a letter from him. His reply to Harry’s letter still hasn’t come, and Darcy wonders where he is now, if he’s close enough that she’d be able to see him, to talk to him, to tell him about everything that’s been worrying her lately and maybe even get a hug out of it. She wouldn’t even care telling him about she and Lupin, because at least she’d be able to tell him. The thought that maybe he’s dead in a field somewhere no one has found him yet, or that he’s captured and the Ministry hasn’t broken the news quite yet…

Her anxiety must show on her face, for Snape takes one look at her when she enters and lowers his head, not speaking. Darcy wishes he would, if only to fill the silence and distract her from her own thoughts.

This particular class has always been Darcy’s least favorite since their very first one. Fifth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, always talking in low voices, their eyes always finding Darcy as she sits at the desk or in the corner or makes her way through the aisles of desks. She’s never actually caught them talking specifically about her, especially because whenever she gets close, their conversation breaks off immediately, but Darcy doesn’t like the tone of their voices and their stares all fixed on her most of the time.

Today’s class is no different. While Snape writes instructions on the blackboard in silence, Darcy hears the soft cackling of a Ravenclaw boy. She glances at him and they meet eyes for a split second before the boy laughs quietly again. Snape turns around slowly, black eyes scanning the room for the source of the laughter.

The Ravenclaw boy silences immediately, but Snape sees him already. He’d been drawing something on a spare piece of parchment, and he hurriedly tries to tuck it away into the pocket of his robes, but Snape flicks his wand and the paper zooms out from the boy’s scrabbling fingertips, coming to rest in Snape’s palm. Snape unfolds it, looks at it for a moment or two, and then scowls, crumpling the paper in his fist.

“Detention, this Friday night, with me,” he growls. “Should we let Miss Potter see what you’ve done?”

The boy turns bright red, burying his face in his hands. Darcy frowns, rising from Snape’s desk and taking the wrinkled paper from his hands. She unfolds it and smooths it out, feeling her heart ache painfully. It’s a crudely drawn picture of Darcy, her breasts and hips terribly exaggerated. She blushes almost as fiercely at the Ravenclaw boy and throws the paper in the waste bin.

“Do you have anything you want to say?” Snape hisses, his voice dangerous.

The Ravenclaw boy clears his throat and lowers his hands from his face, looking at Darcy with a horrified expression. “I’m sorry.”

The classroom is dead quiet. Snape turns back to the blackboard and Darcy feels a rush of affection for him—affection she’s never felt for Snape in all her seven years at Hogwarts. “Maybe now we can continue.”

When the class exits after the bell rings, Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears, feeling quite shy. She steals glances at Snape, but he doesn’t seem to have anything to say. However, Darcy wants to say something before students for next class come in, and she can already hear footsteps approaching from the corridor outside.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she mutters, her cheeks painfully red again. “He’s just a stupid boy.” Snape raises his eyes to look her in the face as the first students begin to spill through the door. “But thank you.”

* * *

“Feels damn good to be back,” Gemma sighs, uncorking a bottle of Darcy’s red wine and pouring herself a glass. Darcy smiles at her, starting a fire in the fireplace. Hermione is standing alone next to it, and when the drive springs to life, she holds her hands out for warmth. “Hermione—want a glass?”

Hermione looks over her shoulder at Gemma, frowning. “No.”

“Leave her, Gemma,” Darcy pleads. “Don’t get me in trouble serving my own alcohol to underage students.”

“I wouldn’t really have poured her a glass,” Gemma says, turning away from Hermione and Darcy to talk to Carla in a low voice.

Darcy looks at Hermione, her eyes scanning the mantle and the shelves to both sides, studying each picture placed upon them, those that are framed and those that aren’t. Since first arriving at Hogwarts, Darcy has accumulated quite a few more photographs, mostly of she and Lupin, or of Lupin himself, and Darcy suddenly feels very warm—she tugs at her collar when Hermione’s eyes fall on the picture of Lupin lying in bed, the blanket pulled up to his chest, his bare shoulders visible and his brown hair falling into his eyes. There’s a smile on his face that nearly takes Darcy’s breath away, yet Hermione seems very composed and moves onto the last photograph.

“These are nice,” Hermione says quietly, picking up a moving one of Darcy and Harry. “I like this one.” She replaces it and turns back to the room at large; Harry and Ron are playing chess at the corner table, while Gemma and Carla watch on, sipping at the drinks and giggling quietly like young girls. Darcy’s heart aches again knowing that Emily should be here with them, just like old times, and she tears her eyes away from her friends. Hermione takes another look at the pictures and sits down on the sofa, Darcy doing the same. “I can’t believe you’re going out with Professor Lupin.” She smiles, making Darcy laugh.

“Yeah?” she sighs, leaning back into the sofa. “Sometimes I can’t believe it either.”

Hermione lowers her voice. “He is quite handsome, isn’t he?”

Darcy smiles, leaning into Hermione, their voices barely whispers. “I certainly think so.” They both laugh together, and when their high-pitched giggling dies away, Darcy bites down on her lower lip. “Hermione, have you given any thought as to what you want to do after Hogwarts?”

“Hm,” she hums. “I haven’t really thought about it much. But maybe something to do with S.P.E.W, if house elves still aren’t free by then.”

Darcy forces herself to smile weakly at Hermione, taking a long sip of wine. When she lowers her cup, she brushes her thumb across the engravings upon it. “Do you think I’m good at what I’m doing? Do you think I’m doing a good thing coming back here? Helping Snape?”

Hermione looks startled to have been asked such a question. She blinks a few times before answering. “You’ve always been good at Potions—one of the best in your year,” she answers, shrugging her shoulders. “And maybe it doesn’t seem like you’re doing a good thing because Snape can be so awful, but look at all the times you’ve helped Neville. He loves you, you know.”

Quiet, Darcy looks into the fire.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here, too,” Hermione whispers. “It’s nice to talk to a girl sometimes. I wouldn’t dare tell Harry or Ron I thought Professor Lupin was handsome.”

“Don’t worry, Hermione, your secret is safe with me.”

The rest of the night goes by quickly, with many more drinks shared, and many more chess games played. Harry allows Darcy to wrap an arm around his shoulders and ruffle his hair and kiss his head; Gemma and Carla plan another get together, but with Emily and Lupin; Ron begs Gemma over and over for a taste of alcohol, but she refuses him, and Hermione seems impressed by Gemma’s will to resist. Jokes and laughter are shared, the fire crackles merrily in the fireplace, and Darcy feels so at home with most of her friends in one place, her apartment feels suddenly comfortable and warm and a place she wants to be.

It’s that night, combined with Snape coming to her defense in class that day, that Darcy comes to the conclusion that, if she’s going to help Snape, she’s going to do a damn good job.


	22. Chapter 22

Saturday morning is crisp and chill, a thin layer of frost covering what dead grass pops out from between the cobblestone street of Hogsmeade. The wind is gentle today, but all around the small village, it whips at the snow-covered mountain peaks, making the snow dance and twirl. The birds sing their songs, villagers and visitors alike have already begun their days, opening their shops and visiting the post office. A beautiful, cloudless day, the sky a bright blue—a perfect day.

As soon as Darcy and Lupin step foot outside The Three Broomsticks, her breath clouds in front of her and she shivers, hearing the crunch of frost underfoot. Pulling her cloak tighter around her, she gives her head a shake to get her hair out of her face. Lupin walks out behind her, attempting to flatten his wavy hair, eyes still puffy from sleep, but a crooked smile on his face as Darcy takes his hand and squeezes, lacing their fingers together. His hand, so much bigger than her own, envelopes her hand and warms her entire body. He lets her pull him down the High Street eagerly, her long legs moving quickly between shoppers.

Darcy decides to window shop, pointing out to Lupin things that she likes, things that she thinks he would like, things that she thinks anyone would like. She turns around and kisses him outside Scrivenshaft's, kisses him several times on the mouth, smiling each time against his lips. Lupin’s cheeks turn faintly pink each time, but he doesn’t resist. He even comes up behind her when they reach the Shrieking Shack, and he wraps his arms around Darcy’s shoulders, hugging her tight to his body. Lupin kisses the top of her head and then rests his chin atop her red hair.

They look at it for a long time in silence, and when Lupin urges her to move on, Darcy spins in his arms and kisses him again, but not quick kisses like the ones she’d been giving him—a sweet kiss, a slow kiss, pulling away after a few seconds after Lupin lowers his hands back to his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to her before they go.

Darcy’s shoulder twinges for the first time in a long time, but she ignores it. “It’s okay.”

But it isn’t that night the Shrieking Shack makes her think of. It seems a lifetime ago she’d gone there for the first time—she had seemed so young then, her shoulder torn to ribbons, Snape carrying her out as she bled profusely all the way back to the castle. Darcy doesn’t carry resentment in her heart towards Lupin for it—not anymore.

She remembers the second time she’d been in the Shrieking Shack, when she’d seen Sirius for the first time in over ten years. The sight of her godfather, seeing the recognition in his eyes—the way he’d held her to his chest. Pettigrew had writhed on the floor, begging for mercy, pleading at her feet like scum—like the rat he is. It had all been so overwhelming that night—all the emotions that had surged through her: fear, anger, hurt, love, confusion, pain. To feel everything all at once, in one night, makes it seem like a dream. Had that really been in June? It had been months now since Sirius had fled.

_Where is he now_?

Darcy wraps her arm around Lupin’s waist as they make their way back up the High Street, the crowd getting thicker as the time slips by. She looks up at him, admiring the way the sun catches him just right, making his hair seem golden, illuminating the gray streaked throughout. He grows more handsome with each passing day, she thinks. Each time she sees him, his smile is a bit more easy, a bit more relaxed. He’s starting seem more like the charismatic professor she’d met about a year ago, much more comfortable receiving her affection, and much more comfortable giving it in return.

It makes her proud—happy—when Lupin wraps his arm around her shoulders, swaying with her back towards The Three Broomsticks. The feeling is alien to her—a feeling she last associates with her reunion with Sirius, and before that—when Lupin had given into her completely, taking her on his own bed. The memory still makes her blush—Darcy had thought herself well prepared to be with him after having slept with Oliver all those times, but Lupin wasn’t an eighteen-year-old boy, and it continues to be both an extremely embarrassing and comforting memory even now. He’d laughed against her lips to shush her, kissed her to stifle her moans; he’d asked her three separate times, “are you all right, kitten?”, and it had made her stomach roll with pleasure to hear him whisper it in her ear each and every time.

She wonders what her godfather would have to say about that—what he would say if he knew what happened behind Lupin’s bedroom door that night. It sends shivers down her spine and she curls her right hand into a fist.

_He’s not Vernon. Sirius would never hurt me._

But then, she thinks, Sirius’s disappointment and shame might be worse than a swift slap from Vernon. Better to get it over with and give it a few days to heal than isolate some of the only true family she has left over a man.

“What are you thinking?” Lupin asks, looking down at her with a smirk on his face. “You’re blushing.”

“My cheeks are cold.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not!”

“You are,” Lupin smiles. “But I’ve told you a hundred times—I like it.” To Darcy’s great surprise, he moves quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning in, kissing her hard. She laughs against him as he continues to pepper her face with more kisses—

Someone clears their throat and Lupin pulls away from her right away. His arms retract from her waist and they both look towards the sight of the noise to find Dumbledore standing in the doorway of The Three Broomsticks, smiling at them. Both Darcy and Lupin have the grace to blush.

“Headmaster.”

“Professor Dumbledore.”

“Forgive me,” Dumbledore says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I thought I’d find you here, Darcy. Remus, may I borrow her for a moment? I promise you’ll get her back.”

Lupin looks apologetically at Darcy. “I’ll order us some food, yes?”

Darcy nods and Lupin smiles weakly at Dumbledore, squeezing past him and through the door. The bells jingle as the door swings open and closed, and Dumbledore waits until Lupin has completely disappeared before requesting that she walk with him. Darcy agrees, and she and Dumbledore walk slightly off the main road, away from eavesdroppers and disturbances.

“I’m sorry about that, Professor Dumbledore,” she murmurs, her face a bright red, eyes fixed on the ground in front of her.

“Are you apologizing for the act itself, or apologizing because I happened to bear witness to it?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but can’t seem to find an appropriate response. When Darcy looks up sheepishly, she finds Dumbledore looking down at her, his impish smile still glued to his face. Darcy clears her throat. “The latter, I suppose.”

Dumbledore chuckles. “I have thought for a long time on what to say to you to get my point across,” he sighs, holding his hands in front of him and letting the breeze take his long beard. “But I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing I say will likely sway your opinion. You know that the both of you have done wrong, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

He hums, seeming amused. “What a feeling—to be in love. Almost unreal, isn’t it?” he asks, but Darcy doesn’t answer. She only shrugs her shoulders, feeling very uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “I’ve been meaning to sit down with you lately, just to check in, but you are quite the busy young woman, aren’t you? I didn’t wish to disturb you while you spent your time doing better things with your friends.”

“Oh,” is all she can think to say. Darcy glances sideways at him and swallows loudly. “You should have told me, Professor Dumbledore. I would have taken some time to meet with you. You’re welcome to visit at anytime.”

“You are kind,” he smiles, looking down at her again. “Professor Snape has told me you’ve been doing well.”

“Has he?” Darcy asks, genuinely surprised, but pleased. “I mean, I don’t really do much, sir. I help him grade homework and I help where I can in classes, but… did he really say that, sir?”

Dumbledore gives her a knowing look, his bright blue eyes twinkling. “Have you been kind to Professor Snape, Darcy?”

Darcy wants to say yes, but feels as if it’s not quite the truth. And judging from Dumbledore’s expression, he knows it, as well. “I may have said some things I shouldn’t have,” she admits shamefully. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry. I would not allow Professor Snape to send you away over a few choice words,” Dumbledore laughs. When his laughter dies away, they walk in silence for a few minutes, their pace so slow it’s difficult to keep.

“Professor Dumbledore, may I ask you something? It’s about Sirius.” Darcy waits for his consent before continuing with the question. “Have you had word from him? It’s been weeks since Harry or I have heard anything, and I’m worried.”

Dumbledore gives her a sad look, and Darcy frowns. “No,” he says, and Darcy finds it such an inadequate answer, it angers her. “But I don’t think you should start to worry just yet. If something happened to him, I think the world would know. I know you miss him, Darcy, very much.”

Darcy lets out a frustrated sigh. “I just—I thought things would be different now,” she tells Dumbledore, running her fingers through her hair. “That night in the Shrieking Shack, I thought Sirius and Harry and I would be able to be a family. I thought I’d be going to live with him, and now—isn’t there anything we can do?”

Considering her for a moment as they walk, Dumbledore chooses his words carefully. “You know the kind of man Cornelius Fudge is,” he begins, stroking his beard. “Maybe not as I do, but you saw a glimpse of his true self at the end of your last year. He refused to listen to you, refused to hear any other explanation of what happened all those years ago. There were eyewitnesses that night who swore that Sirius blew up the street. I testified against him, unknowingly, having believed Sirius to be your parents’ Secret-Keeper. There is nothing we can do until more evidence comes to light, or until Peter Pettigrew decides to show his face again.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat and willing herself not to cry, Darcy asks, “Can I be blunt, Professor?”

Dumbledore seems surprised, but not offended. “Of course.”

“Why did you tell Hagrid I had to go to the Dursleys? Why couldn’t I have gone with Sirius? We loved each other.”

It takes a minute for him to answer, and he seems deep in thought. “I regret that your aunt and uncle have not treated you with the respect you deserve,” Dumbledore says finally. “And I am truly sorry for it. But Sirius is reckless and always has been—even as a student. You were safer at your aunt and uncle’s, and Harry was safer with you.”

“They hate us.”

“Darcy, I feel I should have told you this a long time ago,” he sighs, and they stop at the edge of the village. Darcy grips the fence, looking down into the valley far below them. “I am immensely proud of you, for your dedication to your brother, for picking up where your parents left off. You have done far more than I could ever have expected from you.”

“I had no choice,” Darcy replies, blushing. “I had to care for him.”

Dumbledore chuckles. “Of course you had a choice,” he answers. “There is always a choice, and I am proud of the one you’ve made.”

When Dumbledore walks Darcy back to The Three Broomsticks, Lupin already has food set in front of him, a plate waiting for Darcy. He looks nervous to see Dumbledore, standing at the sight of them entering. Eyes watery with tears, Darcy reaches out for his hands, and Lupin pulls her to him as Dumbledore bids them a warm goodbye.

“Maybe we could go back upstairs,” she murmurs against him, nuzzling into his chest.

So Lupin pays for their meals and they eat in the room Gemma had so kindly reserved for him. Darcy tells him what Dumbledore had said, about what she had asked him, even telling Lupin what the Headmaster said in regards to seeing them together. Lupin blushes, and Darcy smiles at this, kissing the tip of his nose, resulting in making him look more sheepish.

Darcy brushes her own nose against his, remembering fondly the first time she’d kissed him—soft and tender. She remembers her face burning, stumbling through the door, her knees weak from the feeling of his lips on hers. “Let him see us,” she whispers, looking from his lips into his eyes. “Let the world see us. I’m happy.”

“Truly?” he breathes, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Truly.”

She’s barely finished saying the word when Lupin captures her lips in a bruising kiss. His fingers whisper over her cheekbone, as gentle a touch as when she first felt his fingers upon her face all those months ago.

* * *

Within the next few weeks, the students are informed of the delegation set to arrive the day before Halloween. Their excitement is obvious, and Darcy hears much talk of those who seek the glory of winning the Triwizard Tournament, wondering what their guests will be like. But while the students are eager to reach the end of the week, the teachers seem on edge, threatening detentions and growing frustrated with students who can’t keep up with their work. The castle is even deep cleaned, every spot of dirt scrubbed from every corner and crevice and once, Filch even scolds Darcy for tracking dirt in the entrance hall.

“Do it again, and it’ll be detention!”

“I’m not even a student anymore!” Darcy shouts after him, as Filch grumbles away, looking for a mop. She turns to Carla, at her side. “Can he even do that?”

“Now that you’re not a student, I’d be more worried about him trying to dangle you by the toes or something horrible like that.”

“You don’t think he’d actually do that?”

“As if Snape would let Filch torture his most prized and treasured assistant,” Carla chuckles, but nothing about it is humorous to Darcy. “Tell me, Darcy, is it professors that take to you, or just men who knew your parents?”

Darcy stops walking, and Carla takes a few steps before realizing Darcy has stopped. The words sound as if they should have come from Gemma’s mouth—a joke, but a blunt and edgy joke, like Gemma’s known for. But to hear the words from Carla’s mouth is hurtful, especially to see the smile on her face. “That’s not funny, Carla,” she snaps. “Why would you say that?”

Carla laughs nervously, opening and closing her mouth, attempting to find words to fix the damage she’s done. “It was a joke.” Regardless, she slips away, disappearing into the throng of students that emerge from the Great Hall.

Friday morning at breakfast, something finally happens that makes Darcy nearly jump from her chair. Hedwig soars in with the other post owls, dropping a letter at Harry’s feet, and instead of perching by Harry to pester him for a treat, Hedwig continues to soar straight over to Darcy with a second letter before dashing back off to her brother. Max is already clutching her shoulder, having brought Darcy the day’s paper, and she feeds him bits of sausage much to Snape’s disgust, and Professor McGonagall’s. From the opposite side of Dumbledore, McGonagall reprimands her severely (“There will be none of this once our visitors come, Potter!”) With trembling fingers, Darcy tears open the letter and pulls it out, tilting the parchment so Snape is unable to see.

_Darcy,_

_I’m hiding out in the country again. Harry’s last letter has me worried—the one he sent before he tried to convince me not to come back. I’m sure you’re excelling at Hogwarts. I would expect nothing less from James and Lily’s daughter and my own goddaughter._

_Keep an eye on your brother, and send me any information he’s keen on keeping from me. Hopefully we’ll be able to talk properly soon. Call on Remus if you’re in need of anything, and see to it that he keeps his hands off you._

_All of my love,_

_Sirius_

She scrunches her nose. Too late, she thinks, blushing. If only Sirius knew that his hands had already touched every inch of her skin, what would he say then? Darcy would hate to tell him of their involvement via letter, but she’s beginning to see no other choice. She can’t see how they’ll be able to speak properly without drawing Sirius into the open. It’s too risky to send his exact location with an owl—there’s always the chance the Ministry would intercept their letter, and they’d likely send all the Aurors at their disposal to kill him or capture him. Sirius could send her a different location, a random one, but it would need to be a place that Darcy could get to—a place that she would be able to Apparate to, an empty field, or an abandoned house—

Darcy lowers the letter. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? A place that no one would find him—where Aurors weren’t watching for him, waiting for him. It would be risky to bring Sirius so close to the city, but it would be far enough away that Darcy couldn’t see how anyone would even know he’s there. Pushing her chair away from the table and startling Max, Darcy makes for the doors that lead to the entrance hall. “Come on, Max! You can rest later!” Max boots and follows, spreading his wings wide and flying out the open doors. As Darcy passes the Gryffindor table, she clicks her tongue at Hedwig, whose beak is buried in Harry’s goblet of pumpkin juice. “Hedwig, come!” She doesn’t answer any of Harry’s sputtered questions on her way out.

She takes the marble stairs three at a time, racing up to her cozy apartment with both owls following her. Once inside, she tears her bedroom apart, looking for a blank piece of parchment. She finds one in the drawer of her bedside table, along with ink and a quill. Tearing the parchment in half, she hastily scribbles her first letter, explaining her stroke of brilliance and would he please, please allow Sirius to come visit if only for a few hours, just for them to talk. She gives this letter to Hedwig, urging her to fly at top speed to Lupin’s. Tired and irritable (though Darcy thinks Hedwig has always been slightly touchy), Hedwig nips at her fingers before taking off.

Her second letter, in which she also explains her stroke of brilliance, begs Sirius to consider visiting Yorkshire, throwing in lots of things to guilt trip him into agreeing, and sweetens the pot by finishing with,

_From your lonely goddaughter, with all of my love._

“To Sirius, Max,” she whispers to her owl. Max also nips at her fingers, much more gentle and affectionate than Hedwig had been. She scratches him under the beak and then sends him off through her window.

Darcy is anxious all throughout classes that day. Snape tells her several times to stop bouncing her leg, but she can’t help it. It always starts right back up. She chews her nails, bites on her lower lip, rolls her shoulders. How could Lupin have not thought of this? How could Sirius not have thought of this? The prospect of seeing him again, and possibly soon… to be in a home that she loves, with the man that she loves, and her godfather who she loves.

Lessons end early that Friday. Snape tells her to change out of her potion-stained robes lest someone have his head for having his assistant dressed so poorly, and Darcy doesn’t protest. She changes quickly into something much nicer before rejoining Snape in the entrance hall as he escorts some Slytherin students around. It takes some time, but with both Darcy and Snape snapping at them all, Slytherin House stills before the others. Darcy holds her position at the back of the students with Snape, searching the grounds for a sign of some form of transport.

Darcy pulls her cloak around her as tight as possible, the dusk much colder than she’d expected. “How are they getting here?” she whispers to Snape. “I don’t know anything about this—Beauxbatons—right? And Durmstrang?”

“You’ll see.”

Snape’s eyes fix upon the lake, and Darcy keeps her eyes trained on the water, as well. But when someone shouts, “Oh—look! Up there!”, Darcy blinks, looking wildly around for something. She finds that something in the sky, in the shape of Hagrid’s hut. It comes closer and closer, and Snape mutters, “Beauxbatons.”

The Beauxbatons delegates arrive in a carriage, pulled by horses that look big enough for Hagrid to ride comfortably, horses the size of which she’s never seen. A beautiful powder blue, the carriage comes hard towards the grounds to land, not even seeming to slow down. And with a resounding crash, the carriage and horses hit the ground, making the earth rumble beneath Darcy’s feet. Darcy watches carefully, unsure of what kind of students will exit the carriage, but she doesn’t expect to see this.

From out of the carriage comes a woman—taller than she has any right to be—stocky and big, built like Hagrid. She looks stern, her lips pursed as she looks around, her hair pulled into a sleek bun, her curved nose making her look like an enormous bird. She walks quickly to Dumbledore, gathering her black robes like a gown and sweeping across the grass. Behind her, about a dozen students exit the carriage, shivering in their thin robes, some with haughty looks and others looking curious and slightly nervous at the sight of Hogwarts.

“Madame Maxime is the Headmistress,” Snape explains quietly. Darcy barely hears him—she’s still startled over the size of this woman.

Upon finishing her conversation with Dumbledore at the head of the Hogwarts students, Madame Maxime beckons her students to follow and they do so quickly. They make their way up the steps and into the entrance hall with the utmost grace, and Darcy watches after them. As soon as the doors shut behind them, Darcy brings her attention back to the grounds, searching the sky once more.

“The lake,” Snape says, and Darcy looks again at the still water. But it’s not still anymore—the surface bubbles, giving Darcy the impression of a boiling potion in her cauldron, and waves crash against the sides of the lake. In the very center, the water begins to swirl and swirl until something emerges from the very center—and the lone something continues to grow, a long pole lengthening from the depths of the lake.

“A ship!” Darcy gasps, throwing Snape an incredulous smile.

The ship is just like the horses—bigger than Darcy’s ever seen, but now that she thinks on it, Darcy isn’t sure she’s ever really seen a proper ship before at all. It’s not very clean, but instead looks as though it’s had a thousand adventures before, ghostly in the moonlight. As the students disembark, walking quickly over a thick plank thrown down from the side of the ship, Darcy frowns. All of the students remind her of Oliver Wood, broad in the shoulders and bulky for seventeen- and eighteen-year-old witches and wizards. Though, they’re all wrapped in thick fur coats, likely exaggerating their build.

“Dumbledore!”

Darcy can hear Durmstrang’s Headmaster across the grounds, and she looks him over. It’s growing dark and difficult to see clearly, but there’s no mistaking the silvery hair of his, the thick, dark brows, the natural sneer on his face. Her eyes scan the crowd of students as they approach, and she does a double take, seeing someone familiar—

“Is that Viktor Krum?” she asks Snape, but he doesn’t have an answer for her. His eyes are fixed on the other Headmaster. Darcy decides she’ll have to write Gemma right away to inform her that Viktor Krum is here—more than likely, Gemma will be eager to return for her next meeting with Madam Pomfrey, more than eager for a glimpse of the Quidditch player she’d taken to over the summer.

The Headmaster leads Viktor Krum towards the castle with a hand on his shoulder, the other students trailing behind. They pass very close to Darcy, and when the Headmaster gives her a slight nod of acknowledgement and makes to climb the steps up to the entrance hall, he freezes, turning around and releasing Krum’s shoulder.

His dark eyes flick from Darcy to Snape and back again. His lips form a horrifying smile, revealing rotten teeth. Darcy blinks at him in surprise.

“Severus,” he mutters, patting Snape on the arm. “And this must be Darcy Potter? I had heard rumors that you had taken her on as your assistant.” The Headmaster takes Darcy’s hand in his, pressing his chapped lips to her knuckles and lifting his eyes to meet her own. “You are more beautiful than they say.”

“That’s quite enough, Karkaroff,” Snape hisses suddenly. Karkaroff seems caught off guard by Snape’s short words, loosening his grip on Darcy’s hand. She pulls her hand away from him, taking a step back to stand at Snape’s side. “Darcy, this is Igor Karkaroff—Headmaster of Durmstrang.”

“Nice to meet you.” Darcy smiles weakly at him, bowing her head.

“Keeping her close, eh, Severus?” Karkaroff asks with a dry chuckle. He puts his hand on Krum’s shoulder again, who had watched the entire scene play out. “Quite understandable. We all have our favorites…” He leads the rest of his students into Hogwarts, and Darcy turns to Snape, hoping for an explanation as to why Karkaroff unsettles her so.

Snape looks around the heads of students. He grabs Darcy’s upper arm, gently pushing her towards the steps and inside the castle. “Be careful around Igor Karkaroff, Darcy,” he whispers to her, making sure no one else is listening. “And be careful about what you tell him. Stay close to me when he’s skulking about, do you understand?”

Darcy shudders, Snape’s warning making her nervous. They walk into the Great Hall together. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Mr. Bagman!”

“Darcy, my dear! A pleasure to see you! I was just thinking about you earlier—whether or not I’d be able to speak with you, and here we are!” Ludo Bagman shakes Darcy’s hand vigorously before taking his seat in between Snape and Karkaroff. As soon as he seats himself, Ludo smiles pleasantly at Snape. “Severus—surely you don’t mind—? Darcy and I have much to catch up on.”

Snape shoots Darcy a cold look before standing and switching seats with Ludo. Darcy grins as Ludo settles in beside her, sweating slightly, but positively beaming. He pats Darcy’s hand and then begins to load his plate up with food, and Darcy realizes with a start that there are many more options available to them tonight.

“I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight,” Darcy says, passing Ludo a platter of roast chicken.

“Of course, of course!” Ludo replies happily. “I hate to spoil surprises, but if you must know—me and Barty are going to be judges for the tournament.”

“You and Barty?”

“Yes, yes—Barty Crouch.” Ludo looks up at Darcy, chuckling at her blank stare. “Have you not met? Remind me after the feast and I’ll introduce you. That’s him, down there. The dour looking fellow.”

Darcy leans forward, looking down the table. Ludo hadn’t been exaggerating—Barty Crouch is certainly dour looking, his face deeply lined and unsmiling, the complete opposite of Ludo Bagman. Barty Crouch’s dark hair is streaked liberally with gray, parted severely. His upper lip is adorned with a gray mustache, thin and groomed, and among the eccentric wizards and witches seated at the staff table, he looks quite out of place. She doesn’t voice it to Ludo, but Darcy thinks she’d rather not have to engage Barty Crouch in conversation, for fear of being bored to death.

“How are things at the Ministry?” she proceeds to ask Ludo. “I overheard Mr. Weasley saying it was mayhem after the World Cup.”

Ludo looks almost as serious as Barty Crouch for a moment. “It was absolute mayhem, he had the right of it,” he answers. “We’re in the clear now, but with the Triwizard Tournament…”

“No rest for the wicked?”

A smile graces Ludo’s face once more. “I like you, Potter.” She catches his looking sideways at her, and when Ludo realizes she’s looking back, he quickly returns to his meal. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

Darcy doesn’t look away. Ludo isn’t particularly handsome—maybe once, many years ago, but not now—yet he’s not terrible looking. But the serious expression does not suit him, and it does nothing to improve his appearance. She fights with herself between waving his question away with a smile, or telling him the truth—after all, Ludo had been the one to help her during the attack at the Quidditch World Cup, and he’d come to her defense when cornered by Rita Skeeter at the Ministry. “As well as I can be,” she says finally. “Has the Ministry been investigating? Has anything come of it?”

Ludo sets his silverware down and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Darcy, I couldn’t tell you that if I knew,” he replies softly, his voice suddenly urgent and formal. “I think you forget yourself, my dear.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bagman,” Darcy says, noticing the way he fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. She doesn’t look away from him.

Lowering his voice, Ludo continues. “The consensus is that it was an isolated incident.”

His words give her little comfort, but she has a more pressing question to ask him. “Do you see much of the Aurors? I was wondering if you had seen my friend? Emily. She was at the Quidditch World Cup with me.”

Ludo looks thoughtful for a moment. “I remember,” he murmurs, looking even graver still. “She came to me a few weeks ago, asking about the attack—if I knew anything, saw anything, heard anything. Her and that girl—the other one, with the hair—”

“Tonks?”

He hums in response. “I told them that Aurors much more experienced and Magical Law Enforcement are taking care of it, and they need not concern themselves. I don’t know what they’re doing, and I don’t want to know, but they should keep out of it before they do something stupid.”

Darcy nods slowly, unsure of how to continue from there. Ludo lifts his fork to his mouth, and is instantly back to his normal self. He smiles at her, elbows her playfully, and winks. For the rest of their meals, they speak of Quidditch—Ludo giving her play-by-plays of the best games he ever had the pleasure of playing in, talking loudly of his days at Hogwarts and making Darcy laugh. He even asks Darcy about the flying car that she, Harry, and Ron had taken to Hogwarts, and he belly laughs when she explains how they’d flown it directly into the Whomping Willow. In hindsight, she supposes it is truthfully very funny, and she chuckles along with him. When Snape overhears Darcy telling Ludo about the aftermath, when they’d been dragged to Snape’s office, Snape fixes her with an annoyed and impatient look, to which she only smiles.

Finally, when dessert ends and the noise of the Great Hall has begun to settle, Dumbledore gets to his feet, and silence falls. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin…” Darcy looks around the Great Hall as Dumbledore greets their guests. Carla is whispering into her friend’s ear, eyebrows raised as Dumbledore speaks; Harry, Ron, and Hermione are listening raptly; Ludo smiles at Dumbledore, occasionally looking out at the sea of students for a reaction. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

Darcy claps politely, looking down at the old man.

“And Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

Darcy claps much more enthusiastically for Ludo. He waves at the hall at large, smiling crookedly. When the applause dies away, Dumbledore continues, introducing Karkaroff and Madame Maxime.

“Now—Mr. Filch, if you will.”

Darcy’s eyes snap to the back of the Great Hall, where she’d noticed the caretaker lurking earlier. He looks strangely delighted to oblige the Headmaster, pulling a heavy wooden chest down the length of the Great Hall. People begin to talk again, as they all guess what could be inside. Ludo elbows Darcy again, looking excited. Darcy smiles at him, sitting on the edge of her seat.

“The Triwizard Tournament will consist of three tasks, designed, and approved by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman, to test the champions in their magical prowess… their daring… their ability to cope with danger…”

“Bet you wish you were still a student, yes?” Ludo whispers. “I’ll tell you what, Darcy, I would have placed all my money on you.” He points to Dumbledore again, who taps the chest with his wand and it opens.

Darcy tilts her head, looking at the wooden cup that Dumbledore pulls from inside it. It’s an cup—a goblet—wooden and ten times the size of a normal cup. But that’s not the strangest thing about it. Bright blue flames dance within, never faltering and never flickering out. It captivates her attention, and Darcy feels her stomach knot.

“Those wishing to enter the tournament may do so by writing their name and school upon a slip of parchment and dropping it into the goblet,” Dumbledore continues, placing the goblet atop the chest and letting the entire Great Hall look upon it for a few moments. “To all underage students—be warned. I have drawn an Age Line around the goblet so no one under the age of seventeen will be able to pass.”

There’s some murmuring among the students, excited murmuring. Darcy sees Fred and George Weasley with sly smiles on their face. When they see Darcy is looking their way, they both wink at her in unison.

“Tomorrow, at our Halloween Feast, the goblet will give us the names of the three champions it finds most worthy. And let it be known—those who are chosen by the goblet will not be given the chance to change their mind. He or she will be obligated to finish until the end.” Dumbledore looks very serious, and then smiles again. “Now, off to bed. Goodnight.”

As benches scrape the stone floors, and teachers begin to rise to their feet, Ludo puts a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, my dear,” he says, patting her gently and stepping down from the staff table.

Darcy leaps away from the table, trying to catch up with the curly-haired Hufflepuff, surrounded by her friends. “Carla!” she calls, and Carla turns on her heels and grins. Her friends take a good look at Darcy and bid Carla goodbye, leaving her side. Darcy blushes, but Carla walks slowly with her all the same.

“Hey, Darcy,” she says. “Come to try and talk me out of putting my name forward?”

She isn’t unkind about it, but Darcy frowns regardless. “Still going through with it, then?”

“Yes,” Carla sighs happily. “Cedric Diggory said he’s going to put his name forward, as well. That’s double the chance of Hufflepuff representing Hogwarts, isn’t it?”

“I won’t be able to talk you out of this, will I?”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

The hospital wing erupts in cackles. “I told you it wouldn’t work!” Darcy shouts, her stomach aching from laughter. Fred and George scowl at her for a mere second before laughing along with her. Their beards are miraculous, and the hospital wing is full of beards today. “Why didn’t you listen?”

Madam Pomfrey, that damn smart woman, had requested Gemma for the day, writing to St Mungo’s directly. When Darcy had asked why, the matron responded without hesitation that she was sure students were going to try and get past the Age Line, and she’d been right. It’s not only beards though—many students had suffered the repercussions of spells gone wrong and side effects of potions not brewed correctly.

Carla pulls her knees up to her chest beside Darcy. The bed groans and creaks beneath them as Gemma wanders up to the twins, tugging lightly at Fred’s beard. “Am I old enough for you now?” Fred asks her with a grin. “You like bearded men, don’t you?”

“I prefer them a bit shorter, and the wearer to be out of school,” Gemma teases. “Come sit down, you two idiots.”

“Out of school, yeah?” George asks, allowing Gemma to push him and his brother onto a bed. “Last we heard, you were harboring a secret crush on a certain Viktor Krum—who, unbeknownst to all of us—is very much still in school.”

“Viktor Krum is an international Quidditch player,” Gemma counters, pouring some potion into two cups and offering them to the twins. “What do either of you have to offer?”

“A lifetime of laughter,” Fred promises. Gemma only laughs.

“Speaking of laughter,” Carla interrupts, looking at Darcy with her eyebrows raised. “I saw you sitting up there with Ludo Bagman last night. Seems like he knows how to make you laugh.”

“I like him,” Darcy retorts as her friends all snicker. She flushes a deep red. “He’s funny and kind to me. Anyway—what did you think of the other schools?”

“How about that Madam Maxime?” George sighs, whistling and leaning back on the bed after downing his potion. “Have you ever seen a woman—”

“If you have nothing nice to say,” Madam Pomfrey interrupts them, rushing past as someone enters with boils all over their face. “Then maybe you shouldn’t say it at all. Don’t you four have better things to do than distract Smythe from her duties?”

Darcy blushes. She’d been in the hospital wing ever since Madam Pomfrey had brought Darcy along to the entrance hall halfway through breakfast to greet Gemma. Carla had jumped from her seat at the Hufflepuff table to follow after them, and Gemma had cheered upon seeing Carla drop her name into the Goblet of Fire before they all made their way for the hospital wing.

“Who else has entered, then?” Gemma asks, smiling at a fifth year Slytherin girl who walks through the doors crying, boils all over her face. Recognizing Gemma, the girl walks right up to her, and Gemma lowers the girl’s hands from her face to get a better look. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m very good at removing boils. I’ve got a cream, just let me get my bag—”

“No experimenting on my students, Smythe,” Madam Pomfrey says severely, handing the smiling Gemma a vial of potion. “Whatever you do with Mr. Lupin is out of my control, but you do not have my permission to use your—experimental creams and potions on underage students.”

“Lupin?” the girls asks, looking at Gemma with wide eyes and accepting the potion from her. “Professor Lupin? The werewolf?”

Gemma nods, urging the girl to drink.

“My parents said Dumbledore was mad to hire a werewolf. They said werewolves are dangerous creatures, and to place one among students should have gotten Dumbledore sacked.”

Darcy thinks this a bold admission from the girl she’s never spoken to before. Gemma’s smile doesn’t falter, and as Darcy opens her mouth to argue Lupin’s case, Gemma lowers her voice and speaks softly to the girl. “How could you say that?” she whispers, stroking the girl’s long, blonde hair. Darcy is amazed that this girl lets her without question. “Professor Dumbledore would never have hired someone he thought was dangerous.”

The girl’s cheeks turn slightly pink, and her boils begin to shrink. As soon as her face is clear again, the girl takes her leave.

Darcy looks at Gemma apologetically. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’d rather I say nothing at all?” Gemma chuckles. “Go on, then. Who else has entered?”

“All of Durmstrang entered, of course,” Fred says, looking to his brother for help.

“And Beauxbatons, too,” George adds. “I think Angelina Johnson was going to put her name in. Hope it spits her name out tonight. A Gryffindor champion would be nice.”

“A few Slytherins put their names forward just before breakfast,” Darcy says, and Gemma cocks an eyebrow. “I think one of them was Warrington, but I can’t be sure.”

“And me—I put my name in, too,” Carla grins. “And Cedric Diggory.”

“All right,” Gemma answers pensively. “Carla—if your name is pulled, I’ll root for you, but I’m partial to Hogwarts having a Slytherin champion.”

George groans in disgust, scrunching his nose as Fred laughs. “You know,” George sighs. “Sometimes I forget you were a Slytherin.”

“Come on,” Gemma laughs. “Aren’t you a little old to still hate Slytherins on pretense?”

“And you don’t hate Gryffindors?” Fred asks.

“I’m sitting here with three of you, aren’t I?”

Fred shrugs. “Fair enough.”

* * *

Hedwig arrives late afternoon while Darcy takes a late lunch in her room. She raps her beak against the window, and Darcy throws it open. Part of her wishes it was Max, not only because he’d be carrying Sirius’s reply, but because Max would likely be much better company than Hedwig. She drops Lupin’s letter into Darcy’s lap and soars back out the open window without even giving Darcy an affectionate nip.

Darcy sets her sandwich aside, tucking her feet underneath her, ripping greedily at the envelope and pulling the parchment out from within.

_Darcy,_

_It’s risky with the Aurors combing the country for him, but I can’t see the harm in a night’s visit. Let’s see if we can wait until after the next full moon. Hopefully that will give you time to arrange everything._

_Let me know when I can see you again, preferably as soon as possible. Give Harry my best, as always._

_Yours,_

_Remus_

Her heart begins to race. She smiles in spite of herself, wondering if it’ll feel like it did the night in the Shrieking Shack when Sirius had held her for a few moments. She wonders if she’ll cry again—Darcy’s never been one to hide her tears with ease. Despite everything—her anxiety about the Triwizard Tournament and her lingering fears about a war in the near future—the only thing she can think of is that she’s going to see Sirius in a few weeks, and that happy thought is still with her a few hours later when she goes down to dinner, wondering curiously who the champions are going to be.

Ludo Bagman has taken his place in Snape’s seat again for the feast, and Darcy’s quite glad. With her spirits high, they both talk animatedly throughout the Halloween feast; Ludo entertains her with vague hints about the tasks, bets on who the champions from each school will be, and heightens her sense of anticipation when he mentions in passing something very exciting that’s going to be happening near Christmas.

“What is it?” Darcy laughs, asking him for a third time that evening. “Just one more hint, Mr. Bagman, please.”

“I’m fresh out of hints!” Ludo cries dramatically, patting her shoulder and winking. “I’m sorry, my dear! This is one surprise I won’t ruin for you! But I daresay you’ll have a _ball_!”

“Professor Snape,” Darcy says breathlessly, leaning forward to look at Snape across Ludo. “Do you know what it is? You’ll tell me, won’t you?”

Snape gives the both of them a disgusted look and turns back to his meal.

“You’re cruel, Mr. Bagman,” Darcy smiles. “Leading me on like that.”

“Come Christmas, you’ll be glad I didn’t ruin it for you, I promise.”

Finally, after what feels like the longest feast Darcy’s ever sat through (though she thinks it rivaled by maybe her very first feast at Hogwarts, which had seemed to go on forever), Dumbledore gets to his feet. The Goblet of Fire had been moved from the entrance hall to the Great Hall, to be set high at the front so everyone could have a good view. The food and plates disappear in front of everyone and the hall settles immediately, the quiet very pressing as Dumbledore looks around at all of the students.

“It is time,” he begins in a booming voice, “for the champions to be chosen. When the champions’ names are called, they will make their way into the room behind me.” He gestures to a side door at the side of the staff table.

There’s a moment when Dumbledore doesn’t speak, and Darcy leans forward, looking at Ludo with her brows furrowed. Ludo watches the Goblet of Fire closely, his lips stretched into a wide smile. Darcy turns her attention back to the blue flames, and the instant she does, the flames turn red and flicker a little higher.

A burnt piece of parchment shoots from the flames and flutters down into Dumbledore’s hands. He reads it first, quickly, and then announces, “The champion for Durmstrang—Viktor Krum!”

The Great Hall erupts in applause and cheers, some students wolf-whistled. Darcy claps enthusiastically and watches as Viktor rises from the Slytherin table and walks past the staff table and into the side chamber with barely a smile. When the flames turn red again, the noise dies away, and Dumbledore catches the second piece of parchment with deft hands.

“The champion of Beauxbatons—Fleur Delacour!”

A silver haired girl jumps to her feet from the Ravenclaw table, beaming. She’s a beautiful girl, graceful and haughty looking, reminding Darcy slightly of Emily. Other Beauxbatons girls begin to cry, but the Hogwarts and Durmstrang students clap politely as Fleur enters the side chamber, as well.

And then, Darcy’s mouth goes dry. Any second, the Goblet of Fire will give the name of the Hogwarts champion, and it could be Carla’s… Darcy wants to feel excited for her, and then she remembers that she’ll be seeing Sirius soon, and happiness floods her. The flames turn red—Carla’s face is flushed and she’s sitting on her knees, holding hands with Cedric Diggory—the flame spit the last piece of parchment and Darcy has never sat so still in her life, her heart in her throat—

“The Hogwarts champion,” Dumbledore says again, pausing and smiling at his students. “Cedric Diggory!”

Darcy laughs incredulously as the Hufflepuff table gets to their feet, shouting and clapping and stomping their feet. Carla stands with Cedric and gives him a hug, patting him on the back as he stumbles from the mass of Hufflepuffs surrounding him, a goofy smile on his face and his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Excellent!” Ludo Bagman calls over the tumult. “Wonderful!”

“The three champions have been chosen!” Dumbledore declares, clapping his hands together. “By cheering on your champions, you will be contributing in a very real—”

Dumbledore stops abruptly, and Darcy blinks in surprise. She opens her mouth to speak to Ludo Bagman, and then she sees it—the Goblet of Fire’s blue flames have turned red again. Darcy watches carefully, and Ludo’s smile falters. A piece of parchment is tossed out by the flames, and the parchment seems to float slower than possible through the air. Dumbledore snatches it, smooths it out and hesitates. Darcy, a sense of dread overcoming her, begins to rise slowly from her chair.

The Headmaster clears his throat. “Harry Potter.”

Darcy and Harry’s eyes meet across the Great Hall. She knows—she understands—all that he’s trying to communicate to her with his single look. She knows that Harry didn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Tearing her eyes away from her brother, unaware that she’s on her feet, Darcy looks at Snape helplessly. “What’s happening?” she whispers.

“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore says again. “Come up, up here!”

Harry rises, walking through the silent hall. Every eye is upon him, watching him with confused expressions and scowls. No one claps for Harry, no one cheers. Ludo gets to his feet, torn between amusement and disbelief, putting a hand on her shoulder. Darcy watches Harry enter the side room. Ludo follows quickly after Harry, leaving Darcy alone and shocked. There’s some arguing between Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, and Karkaroff, and then Barty Crouch mutters something that makes Madame Maxime snap at him. But Darcy is struck deaf. Her little brother is behind the door just beyond Dumbledore, probably scared and frightened beyond belief.

It isn’t until Snape speaks clearly does she look away from the door, her chest heaving. “Darcy, come.”

She moves slowly, automatically, and as the other teachers and Barty Crouch shuffle towards the side door, Snape waits behind, putting a firm hand on the nape of her neck and guiding her towards the door.

“Professor Snape, what’s going on?” she whispers again, looking up at him.

“Did you put your brother’s name in the Goblet of Fire?” Snape asks softly, out of earshot of the others. His tone is sharp, accusing.

“No,” she breathes, shaking her head and looking him in the eyes. “You know I would never do that.”

“No, no, no—I should think not!” Barty Crouch stops Snape and Darcy at the doorway. Snape lowers his hand from Darcy’s neck, and Darcy tries to look inside behind Barty Crouch, trying to catch a glimpse of Harry. “I will not have Darcy Potter in this room just after—”

“Darcy Potter happens to be _my_ assistant,” Snape snarls. “And she will go where _I_ tell her to. Let’s go, Darcy.”

Barty Crouch seems hesitant, but allows them to pass without another word. Darcy feels this is a huge mistake, because at once, everyone turns to her. Ludo Bagman and Harry, at least, don’t seem angry with her. The room is already small to begin with, made smaller by the abundance of portraits around the walls and the amount of people grouped together within.

“But zere she is!” Madam Maxime shouts, pointing a long finger at Darcy. “Of course she put his name in! She is his sister, is she not?”

“I didn’t—”

“There is no way he could have crossed your Age Line,” Karkaroff sneers, attempting to keep the malice out of his voice. Darcy can’t help but think it funny that Karkaroff speaks so harshly to her now after he’d done his best to charm her during their first meeting. “Only she could have ensured that his name was put in. But how, child? How did you trick the Goblet of Fire?”

“I never—” The other teachers talk over her again, and Darcy sweeps over to Ludo, grabbing his robes in her hands and looking up at him hopelessly. “Please, Mr. Bagman—please—you can’t let him go through with this—”

Ludo takes Darcy’s hands in his, lowering them from his robes and beginning to answer, but it’s Barty Crouch that speaks. “Those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete.”

“Zis is ridiculous!” Madam Maxime replies. “You are telling me, Dumbly-Dorr, zat zis girl is not going to be punished for breaking the rules?”

“Darcy Potter didn’t break the rules.”

Everyone jumps and turns towards the source of the new voice. Mad-Eye Moody has taken them all by surprise, clunking into the room on his wooden leg. Darcy takes a step back, backing into Ludo, who catches her. “You sound confident,” Karkaroff spits back. “What is your evidence then, that Darcy did not enter his name?”

“Darcy Potter is barely more than a child,” Moody growls, narrowing his good eye at Karkaroff as his magical one finds Darcy. “You believe her a skilled enough witch at nineteen-years-old to bewitch a very powerful magical object? You believe Darcy Potter would willingly put her brother’s name into the Goblet of Fire knowing he could die?”

“There is one certain way to know if Darcy did do this, of course,” Dumbledore interrupts, holding his hands behind his back. “If you had let her speak for herself, we might have already had the answer.” He turns to Darcy, still breathing heavily with Ludo’s hands on her arms. “Darcy, did you put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire? Did you knowingly trick the Goblet of Fire in any way?”

“No,” Darcy rasps, and anger surges in her. How could Dumbledore be so calm about this? “I didn’t, and I would never.” She looks at Harry again, who still hasn’t spoken all this time.

“I believe you, Darcy.” Dumbledore examines her face for a long time, and she quickly rearranges her features, hoping Dumbledore hasn’t noticed the anger on her face. “Severus, please escort Miss Potter to my office. I won’t be long, Darcy. Please wait for me.”

Darcy feels Ludo’s hands release her, and she looks at him over her shoulder. With everyone still looking at her, Darcy chances one more look at Harry before walking towards Snape, allowing him to lead her from the room.

The Great Hall has been emptied—she’s thankful for that. Snape leads her quickly through the large oak doors, up the marble staircase. “They won’t let him compete, will they?” she asks. “He can’t—Dumbledore will—he’ll do something, won’t he?”

Snape gives the password to the gargoyle that guards the stairwell to Dumbledore’s office. She follows him up it and through the door to the office. All of the portraits watch her curiously, muttering amongst themselves. She hears Snape’s footsteps on the carpet, heading back for the door, and Darcy turns around instinctively, calling out for him and wrapping her arms around herself. There’s something unsettling about having her back to many of the portraits. “Don’t go,” she begs, and Snape hesitates. “Please. Don’t leave me alone here.”

“I’m not a babysitter.”

“Please don’t go.”

Snape seems impatient and annoyed, and his eyes become cold and hard again. But he sits all the same, in the chair at Dumbledore’s desk, across from the Headmaster’s own chair. Darcy remains standing, examining Dumbledore’s silver instruments set upon a crooked table, avoiding looking at any of the portraits.

“You believe me, don’t you?” Darcy asks, speaking to the back of Snape’s head. “I didn’t put his name in there.”

He turns in his seat to look at her, and he looks for a long time. “Yes,” he finally answers. “I believe you.”

The rest of the wait is quiet.


	24. Chapter 24

“Take him out of the tournament.”

“You heard Mr. Crouch, Darcy. Harry must compete in the tournament.”

Darcy paces Dumbledore’s study restlessly, the eyes on the walls following her. “No,” she snaps, but Dumbledore lets her continue. “Take him out.”

“I’m sorry,” Dumbledore sighs. “I can’t. Harry must compete. He must finish the tournament.”

“You said it yourself—no student under the age of seventeen is allowed to compete.”

“I know what I said, and I am as baffled as you are, Darcy. But he is bound by magical contract to see the Triwizard Tournament to the end.”

She stops her pacing, whirling to face Dumbledore. Anger overcomes her—anger such as she cannot remember ever possessing. To think that years of her life have been wasted protecting Harry, only for him to be entered into a dangerous tournament with absolutely no explanation as to how he was entered or who entered him is infuriating, and to see Dumbledore sitting so calmly lights a fire in her. “He will die,” Darcy growls, stepping up to Dumbledore’s desk and putting her hands atop it. “Harry is fourteen-years-old, and he will die in this tournament.”

Dumbledore is quiet, pressing his fingertips together almost as if in prayer. He leans back in his tall chair, never taking his eyes from her.

“How could you have let this happen? Have I not suffered enough?” Darcy asks, her voice breaking. “Have I not hurt enough for your liking that you must continue to push my limits? If I am forced to suffer anymore, surely my heart with break.”

Darcy pauses, waiting for Dumbledore’s response, but still he does not speak. That only makes her angrier, and Darcy knows she should stop talking now, but she can’t—it comes spilling out of her in a rage she associates with the argument she and Snape had after she’d woken up in the hospital wing back in June, after all that had transpired in the Shrieking Shack.

“I have done all I can to protect Harry my entire life—since you decided to ship us off to Privet Drive without caring about what I might have wanted.” Darcy continues to pace the study, and some of the portraits scoff at the way she talks to Dumbledore, but she ignores them. “And you have continued to turn a blind eye to the dangers that lurk inside Hogwarts’ walls. You have continued to ignore everything I have done for my brother, by continuing to allow things like these to happen—and now you’re condemning my baby brother to certain death by forcing him to compete in a tournament that is far too dangerous.”

It takes Dumbledore a long time to answer, and his face is no longer amused or thoughtful. His face is stony, an expression she doesn’t recall ever seeing on Dumbledore’s face. “I would like you to sit down, Darcy,” he says softly. Darcy only looks at him. “Sit down.”

The second time, Darcy does as he says.

“Do not presume that I am blind to your pain, Darcy,” Dumbledore says. His voice is still quiet, but he speaks to her in a firm and rough voice that she’s never heard from him before. “When you first arrived here at Hogwarts, I saw that you were hurting. I know that you are hurting now from wounds I fear will never heal. After your ordeal with the Chamber of Secrets, I feared for you—I knew that if you were not helped along through your grief and trauma and suffering, you would not only be a danger to others, but to yourself.”

“And you did nothing,” Darcy hisses.

Dumbledore frowns. “I sought out Remus,” he continues. “I told him that he would be welcome at Hogwarts, that we would supply him with as much Wolfsbane as he needed, and I told him that there was a poor, young girl in desperate need of a friend—a poor, young girl who was hurting and in need of comfort from someone familiar.”

Darcy is quiet, listening hard, her blood pumping. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears.

“That was all it took for him to accept my offer. He promised me he would talk to you, check up on you. He promised me that you would have someone to confide in your dreams and your fears,” Dumbledore finishes. “Did I know then what your friendship would blossom into? Did I think that either of you would ever break the trust I had put in the both of you? Did you think I had not noticed his and your continued absences from the Great Hall during meals? Did you think, Darcy, that when you promised me in this very office that you would never again cross any boundaries put in place, that I did not worry?”

Dumbledore stands, and he suddenly seems very intimidating, but Darcy does not falter. She will not be hurt by his words, by his lecture. Dumbledore, who could never understand the comfort Lupin’s presence gives her, could never understand the trust between them.

“I have done you a service, Darcy,” Dumbledore says. “You and Remus both. I knew that it would be an easy thing for you to fall in love—you are a vulnerable, teenage girl who grew up in a loveless household. I cannot express to you the disappointment I felt when I found out the truth of what was happening behind closed doors. The fault does not rest entirely on you—Remus should have known better, should have understood the risks and consequences of betraying my trust.

“And despite all of it, I offered you a place at Hogwarts that only one other student has ever been offered, because I knew that you would suffer deeply without Harry. With the recent departure of your godfather, I knew that bringing you back to Hogwarts was the best possible scenario for you. I wanted to be able to keep a close eye on you, to make sure that you were well-cared for and able to heal.”

He pauses, sitting back down. Darcy looks at Dumbledore, horrified. His words, despite Darcy wanting to ignore them, shake her to her core.

“Do not presume that I have minimized your sufferings. Do not presume that I have not also known suffering in my long, long lifetime. I admire your fierce loyalty and determination in protecting Harry. But what would you have me do, Darcy?”

When Darcy is unable to come up with an answer, he presses on relentlessly.

“Harry must compete in this tournament, and he must do so without outside help. I know that you will want to help him through this, but you cannot,” Dumbledore tells her. “I am well aware of what is to come in this year’s Triwizard Tournament, and I will make sure that Harry is alive and well at the end of it.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“You don’t have to believe me, Darcy,” Dumbledore sighs. “Now, why don’t you get some rest? Tonight must have been an exhausting ordeal for you, and I know you probably want to be alone.”

It’s strange to Darcy how quickly his tone changes. He sounds kindly again, elderly and genuine. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep anyway; the first thing she wants to really do is write a letter to Lupin, to tell him of what had transpired tonight—of what Dumbledore had just told her. Then she wonders if Dumbledore would give her leave to ask one more question.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Darcy starts, trying to channel all of the manners and grace that Aunt Petunia had attempted to teach her. “Do you know that Sirius has come north?”

Dumbledore smiles at her. “Sirius and I have been corresponding,” he explains. “He may have mentioned it.”

“Do you think it would be safe for Sirius to visit Remus’s for a night?”

“What a wonderful idea. I can’t see the hurt in a few hours time,” Dumbledore answers, stroking his long beard. “Goodnight, Darcy.”

As soon as Darcy gets back to her private room, she rummages around for parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle. She seats herself on the sofa, lighting a fire in the hearth, and stares down at the blank parchment. Unsure of how to put everything in a letter, Darcy prays that one of the school owls will be able to deliver her message quickly.

Then, she thinks, maybe it would be a good night to have a drink—the walk down to Hogsmeade might be good to clear her head, and the idea of nursing a bottle of firewhiskey and being able to sleep in tomorrow tempts her. She could stop at the post office to choose an owl—the selection would be much better—and then visit the Three Broomsticks. Darcy had been considering visiting Gryffindor Tower if only to speak to Harry, but decides it might be better to meet with him tomorrow, where they can speak in the privacy of her room. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind for the time being, Darcy scribbles on the parchment.

_Harry was chosen as a second Hogwarts champion by the Goblet of Fire. Please come as soon as you are able._

_Darcy_

She departs for Hogsmeade after wrapping herself in a thick, black cloak. Clutching her letter tightly in her fist, Darcy hurries down the empty corridors and jumps down the marble steps into the entrance hall.

“Darcy!”

Gasping and jumping near off the ground, Darcy whirls around, her heart hammering in her chest. She runs a hand through her hair and exhales loudly at the sight of Ludo Bagman strutting towards her from the Great Hall. She stops, pocketing the letter. “Mr. Bagman,” she says rather breathlessly. “You scared me.”

“My apologies,” Ludo smiles. “May I ask where you’re going at this hour? It’s getting late.”

“I was going to go down to Hogsmeade,” she answers. “Escape the confines of Hogwarts for a few hours. There’s a few things I have to do.”

“I’ve got a room booked in Hogsmeade for the duration of the Triwizard Tournament,” Ludo tells her. “I’m staying tonight. I’ll walk you down. Perhaps buy you a drink? What do you say?”

Ludo Bagman doesn’t strike her as a suspicious or malicious man, and Darcy knows he hasn’t been anything other than kind to her, so she smiles back at him. Something about being able to say she’s shared a drink with Ludo Bagman amuses her. “Maybe one drink would be all right,” she replies, taking his offered arm.

They make forced small talk as they start down the path to Hogsmeade. About halfway down, their conversation dies out, and when Ludo clears his throat, Darcy knows what he’s going to ask. “Darcy, you know I have to ask,” he says carefully. “Did you put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire?”

“No, I didn’t.” The words come out colder than she intended.

“All right. I believe you.”

“Thank you,” Darcy rasps after a moment.

Darcy makes sure to stop at the post office first, tying her letter to the leg of an eagle owl, leaving her money in a small box on the front of the closed door leading inside. Ludo then buys her a drink, as promised, at the bar of the Three Broomsticks. She admits to him that she’s never sat at the bar before, and he laughs, telling Darcy stories about his time spent at this very bar. One drink turns into two, and Darcy is so grateful for Ludo’s company that she pays for their second drinks, their third drinks, their fourth drinks, and even their fifth drinks, by which time they are both flushed and still laughing weakly from Ludo’s last story.

Ludo looks at her for a long time, as if seeing her clearly for the first time. His yellow hair flops onto his flat forehead, his eyes bloodshot and droopy. “You’re a sweet girl,” he sighs, flashing her a tired smile. “You know, I am sorry for what happened at the Ministry. Rita Skeeter is truly a terrible woman. I’ve had my fair share of nasty articles—and I’ve no doubt your turn will soon come.”

“People have written cruel things about me before,” Darcy admits weakly.

“The thing you have to remember is,” Ludo says dramatically, slamming a fist on the bar top, “only you know the truth. Even if Rita Skeeter puts out a nasty article without a shred of truth to it—what does it matter, truly? Listen, my dear, darling girl—I’m going to tell you something.”

Darcy nods for him to continue. He leans closer to her, smelling strongly of drink, and Ludo lowers his voice.

Ludo takes a great, deep breath. “Rita Skeeter will eat you alive, my dear, if you are not prepared. You are young and beautiful, the exact opposite of her. People like us will never escape it,” he whispers, his breath hot on her face. For a brief moment, Ludo reminds Darcy of Professor Lockhart, telling her about the fickles of fame. “Fame always comes at a price, and some prices are much steeper than others. You, for instance—” Ludo trails off, sitting up straighter again. “Do you remember much of what happened?”

She considers him, unable to find a reason she shouldn’t tell Ludo the truth. “Bits and pieces,” she says. “I dream of it mostly. The green light of the Killing Curse, my mother’s face, my godfather finding me among the ruins of my home.”

Ludo is quiet, eyes wide with fear. Darcy keeps a straight face, the drink making her more confident and bolder. “I had heard rumors last year,” he replies. “That your godfather is Sirius Black?”

“Yes,” Darcy confirms. She looks around the room and moves closer to Ludo. “He’s innocent, Mr. Bagman.”

Darcy can tell that Ludo is hesitant about answering.

“You don’t believe me,” she smiles weakly. “It’s all right. I know the truth.”

They take a long drink in silence.

“You’ll help him, won’t you?” Darcy asks him finally, when Darcy finishes her sixth drink. She rubs her temples. “You’ll help Harry?”

“Help Harry?” Ludo looks pensive, touching his chin, lost in thought for a minute. “I suppose there are things to be gained helping Harry Potter through the tournament…” The last part he says quietly, more to himself than to Darcy. “We could make some money, Darcy. Who would think to wager on Harry when the other champions would be a more obvious choice?”

Darcy frowns. “You’d be doing a good thing, Mr. Bagman,” she adds. “By helping Harry. He’s just a boy.”

“Of course, of course,” Ludo nods in agreement with exaggerated enthusiasm. “I will do what I can, you have my word—it will be our little secret.”

Darcy smiles incredulously at him. She knows he’s likely drunk, more so than Darcy, having drunk only hard liquor. But it’s strange to see him submit so easily to her request, especially since he had worked so hard on the tournament itself. And Darcy knows why—she knows that Ludo Bagman favors her because she’s the pretty sister to The Boy Who Lived, and she had always hated being thought of that way. But to see Ludo accept the task of helping Harry—essentially—cheat with barely a moment’s hesitation excites her. And all she’d had to do was laugh at his jokes and smile at him and occasionally entertain him with a joke or a quick witted response to a comment of his.

Yet part of her feels guilty and ashamed; it _is_ cheating. The other judges are already suspicious enough—Darcy sees no reason for them not to snoop around for a reason to get Harry thrown out of the tournament. And if they find Ludo helping Harry, will Ludo tell them it was Darcy’s idea? She doesn’t think of him as a very loyal person, or a very brave person. Would they throw her out of Hogwarts for such a thing? Surely Dumbledore wouldn’t allow her to be thrown out…

_He’s only a boy_ , Darcy reminds herself. _He’s my brother_.

“Our little secret,” Darcy repeats and Ludo smiles at her. “I should be heading back now, Mr. Bagman. It was good to see you. Thank you for your company.”

“And you, my dear. Come down for a drink anytime.”

Darcy gets her bottle of firewhiskey and staggers up the long path towards the castle. The drink affects her more than she’d though, and twice she has to stop, a stitch in her side, to vomit in the dead grass. When she does finally make it back up to her room, falls onto her bed with her cloak still around her. Drunk and exhausted, she falls asleep almost instantly, one arm hooked around the bottle.

* * *

“Oh—Darcy! You smell awful! Have you been drinking?”

Darcy’s eyes flutter open. Her body is sore and stiff from lying in the same position all night, and she’s sweating slightly with her cloak still around her. Hermione’s standing at her bedside, Harry peering over her shoulder at his sister. She clears her throat and lifts her head, tearing her cloak off and throwing it on the ground.

“Harry,” Darcy croaks, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She gets to her feet and pulls Harry to her, hugging him tightly. “Oh—Harry…”

“Were you cuddling with a bottle of firewhiskey?” Harry mutters, accepting her hug grudgingly.

“I brought you breakfast, Darcy,” Hermione says meekly.

The three of them move out to the front room, where Darcy sees Hermione has loaded a plateful of Darcy’s favorite breakfast foods. She attacks it, sitting in between Harry and Hermione while they both speak into her ears.

“I told him he needs to write Sirius,” Hermione rambles, and Darcy shrugs, thinking it a rather good idea. “There are more important things right now than whether or not people believe you put your name into the Goblet of Fire.”

“I think whoever put your name in the Goblet of Fire meant to do you harm,” Darcy adds with a mouthful of toast. “Which means there is someone dangerous inside of Hogwarts, and we have no idea who it is.”

“Karkaroff would be my guess,” Harry scoffs. “Seems like the type, doesn’t he?”

“You think so?” Darcy asks. “Karkaroff was furious that you’d been entered. As was Madame Maxime and almost every other person in that room. I don’t think he did it, but I also don’t have an idea as to who it could be.” She puts another piece of toast in her mouth. “Listen, Ludo Bagman likes me—I think I could weasel some information out of him, but it seems too early for him to know anything.”

Hermione clears her throat quietly. “You don’t think it—I mean, Ludo Bagman…”

“No way,” Darcy counters, feeling very sure that Ludo Bagman would never do such a thing, despite not knowing him very well. “I would suspect Barty Crouch before Ludo, and—hang on a moment. Where’s Ron?”

Hermione glances anxiously at Harry across Darcy’s lap, wringing her hands together. Harry looks down at his feet. “Ron is—” Hermione frowns and sighs heavily. “I told Harry that Ron’s only jealous, but… Ron doesn’t _really_ believe you put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire, Darcy.”

“What?” Darcy snaps. “He thinks I did it? Ronald Weasley? Ron thinks I put Harry’s name in there?”

“No, I told you—he doesn’t really believe that!” Hermione retorts shrilly. “He’s jealous, Darcy. You know he wanted to be in the tournament, but he couldn’t, and then Harry’s name was called and now Ron has to compete with Harry having all the attention again and—”

“All right, all right, I get it.” Darcy looks to Harry. “You have to tell someone. You have to tell Sirius.”

She was going to write to Sirius the previous night, despite Max being out with a letter to him already. But Darcy had remembered she’ll be seeing him in a few weeks and wanted to tell him in person. She wonders what Harry would say if she were to tell him now she’d be meeting with Sirius. Darcy imagines he’d feel quite jealous and left out—she certainly would if Harry admitted he’d be seeing Sirius. She decides to say nothing at all, feeling guilty.

Harry narrows his eyes at her. “Did you tell Lupin?” he asks her, sounding irritated.

Darcy scoffs, avoiding his eyes. “No,” she lies.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t!”

All three of them jump when someone knocks on the door. Darcy looks at the door warily, getting to her feet. Hermione and Harry cast her curious glances over the top of the sofa as she opens it. There are three people standing opposite Darcy—Professor Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling; Gemma, a permanent smile on her face; and Lupin, looking more serious than she’d like to see him.

“You liar!” Harry shouts at her back at the mere sight of Lupin.

“Visitors, Darcy,” Dumbledore says from behind Lupin and Gemma. “I thought maybe you’d enjoy their company.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Darcy smiles at her friend and Lupin.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Gemma explains. Darcy lets them in and Dumbledore turns back for his office. Shutting the door behind them, Darcy feels her stomach churn with pleasure at having so many people she loves in her room, here to comfort her and her brother. Lupin greets Harry with a handshake, Hermione with a one-armed hug, takes a seat in the armchair and lights a fire while Gemma sits on the end of the sofa, beside Hermione. Darcy resumes her position between Harry and Hermione. “Madam Pomfrey wrote me last night explaining what happened. Isn’t she sweet, knowing I’d want to be with you?”

Madam Pomfrey’s gesture surprises her, but Darcy feels a rush of affection for the matron. “That is sweet,” is all she can say to that.

“I meant to be here first thing, but Carla found me as I was entering the school,” Gemma continues, standing up and warming her hands by the fire. “She’s not happy, you know.”

Darcy and Harry exchange a glance. “Carla doesn’t think I did it, does she? After all the grief I gave her for wanting to enter the tournament?” Anger begins to rise in her again, but Darcy tries to keep her head.

Gemma chuckles. “That’s likely why she thinks you did it,” she shrugs. “To keep her from being the champion and all.”

“But you believe that we had nothing to do with this, don’t you?” Harry asks, and Darcy nods. “Both of you, right?”

Gemma and Lupin look at each other for a brief moment. Darcy is under the impression they’d been talking about she and Harry on their way up to her room. Gemma is the one to respond. “Do I think that Darcy, who has done nothing but dedicate her life to keeping you safe, put your name into the Goblet of Fire to ensure you were a champion in a dangerous tournament?”

“Someone did put his name in, though,” Darcy says, looking hopefully to Lupin. “But we don’t know who, and Dumbledore says he must compete and he said I can’t help him through it.”

“Like the other champions aren’t going to get help?” Gemma laughs, rolling her eyes.

“You don’t think they’d cheat, do you?” Hermione asks.

“Yeah,” Harry puts in fiercely. “Karkaroff and Madame Maxime aren’t happy that Hogwarts has two champions. I bet they’ll do anything to make sure their own champions win.”

“So you’re saying,” Hermione frowns, glaring daggers at Harry. “Because the other schools may try and help their champions, it’s okay for you to cheat, as well?”

Darcy thinks of Ludo Bagman, deciding she’ll keep their deal a secret, as well. That’s something that can wait until she’s alone with Gemma and Lupin. “The other champions already have an advantage,” Gemma tells Hermione, sitting down on the floor with her back to the coffee table. “It wouldn’t really be _cheating_ , helping Harry. It would be—well, it would even the playing field.”

“Everyone would suspect Darcy of helping Harry,” Hermione protests, scrunching her nose at Gemma and crossing her arms over her chest. “You’ll get her into trouble, even if she doesn’t help.”

“No one would say anything,” Gemma argues. “Not when they run the risk of being caught helping their champions, too.”

“This is serious,” Hermione says, and Darcy can’t help but to smile at this young girl arguing in her favor. “If Darcy gets caught helping Harry, she could be sent away from Hogwarts or worse.”

“What will they do? Send her to Azkaban for helping her little brother?”

At once, everyone looks slowly to Lupin, who has been unusually quiet. He notices quickly, clearing his throat and sitting up very straight in the chair. “What?” he asks, sighing and looking around at them all. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“You’re the expert rule breaker here,” Darcy says, giving him a forced smile. “What does Moony have to say about all of this?”

They keep their eyes fixed on each other as Lupin rubs his face, scratching at the scruff on his face. “I think it unwise to test the limits of the Triwizard Tournament without knowing what the consequences may be,” Lupin answers. “If Dumbledore says Harry has to compete, so be it. But you’d be risking a lot by helping Harry, Darcy. You don’t know what could come of this, and with everyone already thinking you had a hand in entering him…”

“But I didn’t,” Darcy growls.

To her surprise, Lupin laughs. “You don’t have to convince _me_ , sweetheart. If you say you didn’t do it, then I believe you.”

Gemma groans. “Darcy, do you have something to drink? All this talk of danger is making my throat dry.”

“There’s a bottle on the bed.”

“It’s not even lunchtime,” Hermione notes, checking her watch quickly.

Gemma returns with the bottle, shrugging her shoulders. “Just be thankful I haven’t lit up a cigarette in here. No doubt Darcy would kill me.” She finds some glasses in the cupboards opposite the sofa, pouring three shots for herself, Darcy, and Lupin.

Gemma beckons them over, and Lupin stands, pulling Darcy to her feet by the hands. With a hand on the small of her back, Lupin leads her over to Gemma. The three of them are quiet, and they watch Harry get up and fumble in Darcy’s small liquor cabinet for two bottles of butterbeer, returning to the sofa and Hermione. Gemma swirls the liquid in her glass, not taking her eyes off Harry. “The story will break soon,” she whispers. “This can’t be kept a secret forever, and I’m sure all eyes will turn to you, Darcy.”

“I’ll be okay,” Darcy nods, remembering Ludo’s words the previous night. “I’ll be fine. I know the truth.”

“I’m very glad to hear that, love, but isn’t anyone investigating?” Lupin asks softly. “Surely someone will look into this as more than a simple coincidence?”

“Ludo Bagman doesn’t seem to think it warrants an investigation, unless he’s not telling me something,” Darcy answers. “Do you think it’s connected to the attack at the Quidditch World Cup?”

“No matter,” Gemma smiles, eyes flicking back to Darcy. “Good thing we know two Aurors hungry for a chance to prove themselves.”

Darcy scoffs, but Lupin considers Gemma thoughtfully. “Emily and Tonks?” Darcy laughs. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I mean—if they trod on someone’s toes, they’ll be chucked out, won’t they?”

“Come on, my proud little Gryffindor,” Gemma says. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Darcy rounds on Lupin, keeping her voice down, gripping her glass of firewhiskey tight. “And you’re okay with this?”

Lupin thinks carefully for a moment. “If they do find something and take it back to the Aurors, it may spark a real investigation.” He puts a hand on Darcy’s back. “Someone in this school is not your friend, and certainly not Harry’s. The sooner we find out who that is, the easier I’ll sleep at night.”

“What would Dumbledore say?” Darcy snaps at the both of them.

“Dumbledore didn’t have much to say when you were running around with some twelve-year-old kids looking for the Chamber of Secrets,” Gemma reminds her. “You think he’ll really be upset we’ve set two talented witches on the job? _If_ we tell him…”

Both Lupin and Gemma look at Darcy, waiting for an answer. She looks at Harry and Hermione, talking quietly on the sofa, drinking their butterbeers. “Fine,” she hisses. “I’ll write to Emily later today.”

Gemma claps Darcy on the shoulder. “You know, the three of us could take over the fucking world. The daughter of some Death Eaters, a werewolf, and Darcy Potter.” She lifts her glass. “They’d never see us coming.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Lupin grins, lifting his glass, as well.

Darcy looks at Lupin, her stomach churning at the sight of his smile. Then she looks at Gemma, one thin eyebrow cocked and a small smirk playing at her lips. “I love you guys so much,” she says breathlessly, so overcome with emotion that she almost starts crying. “Thank you for coming.”

“We love you too, Darcy,” Gemma finishes, eyeing the amber liquid in her glass. “Of course we’d come. Now—is it time to drink?”

“Yeah,” Darcy chuckles. Lupin drapes his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. For the first time since learning of the Triwizard Tournament, Darcy feels at ease with the whole thing. She finally lifts her glass, leaning into Lupin’s chest. “To us.”

 


	25. Chapter 25

“Go for his bishop,” Darcy whispers into Hermione’s ear. “He always uses his bishop.”

“No—go for the rook,” Gemma urges Hermione in her other ear. “It’s the safer choice.”

“Hermione, you really trust Gemma’s judgement over mine?”

“You’ve never been good at chess,” Gemma laughs. “Hermione, when have I ever led you astray?”

“Hermione, remember all the things I’ve done for you? A good way to repay me would be to _get his bishop_.”

Hermione looks from Darcy to Gemma to Lupin, who’s seated across the table waiting patiently for Hermione to take her turn, the corners of his mouth upturned. Harry watches the match from Lupin’s side, still bitter from his shameful defeat at Lupin’s own hand. Hermione reaches out for her knight, looking hard into Lupin’s face for a reaction. He only smiles, and then Gemma slaps at Hermione’s hand.

“Don’t use your knight,” Gemma hisses.

“She can use her knight,” Darcy retorts.

Hermione puts her palms on the table, slapping the wood hard. When she speaks, her voice is shrill and tense. “You’re both making me _extremely_ nervous!”

Without hesitation, Hermione reaches out and grabs her queen, moving it forward a few spaces to take one of Lupin’s knights. Lupin chuckles, pushing his bishop across the table. “Checkmate,” he says, leaning back in his seat, flushed from drink and success. “You should have listened to Darcy. I am partial to my bishops.”

“Honestly, Hermione,” Darcy sighs lightheartedly. “You think I don’t know the way his mind works?”

Hermione frowns, cleaning up the pieces. “You were both talking very fast and saying completely different things!”

Darcy puts her hands on Hermione’s shoulders and gives them a slight squeeze, getting to her feet. Her room is littered with plates that still have food on them, empty bottles of butterbeer and wine and the half-full bottle of firewhiskey: Exploding Snap cards still lay out on the coffee table, and clothes have been shed—Harry’s sweater hangs over the back of Hermione’s chair and Lupin’s heavy traveling cloak had been thrown on Darcy’s bed. Gemma’s own expensive cloak rests on the sofa. A few recently taken Muggle photographs are scattered across countertops and the tables—many of them are of Darcy and Gemma, teeth bared in obnoxious smiles, one picture Hermione had taken of Darcy lying in Gemma’s arms on the sofa during their Exploding Snap game. Darcy has already added another photograph to her collection upon the mantle, however—a photograph courtesy of Gemma. Darcy looks at it now, a candid photo of Darcy laughing at something Lupin had said, and him smiling down at her.

The Triwizard Tournament is temporarily forgotten for the evening, as the five of them continue to laugh and Lupin tells them all a scandalous story about he and Sirius from when they were in school. Gemma, drunker than anyone, leans into Lupin after he finishes, and tells him very seriously—“I know that Sirius and I are very, very, very distantly related by marriage or something, but does that make it weird if I come onto him?”

“Yes!” Darcy says suddenly, before Lupin can answer. “You cannot—my godfather is off-limits!”

“Hark who’s talking,” Gemma replies with her eyebrows raised.

“No,” Darcy snaps. “No, no— _no_. I know your idea of romance and I cannot bear to picture—”

Gemma roars with laughter. “And I know your disgusting idea of romance,” she teases. “Holding hands by the fireside, reading poetry in each other’s arms, doing it by candlelight—”

Darcy flushes; Harry quickly averts his sister’s eyes; Lupin’s and Hermione’s cheeks turn pink; Ron’s ears turn bright red. Gemma laughs at them all, getting to her feet and pulling out a pack of cigarettes, looking at Darcy and nodding towards the bedroom. Darcy runs her fingers through Lupin’s hair as she gets up and walks away, ruffling Harry’s when she passes him.

“ _Darcy_ …” Harry mutters to Darcy’s back, trying to flatten his hair. She glances over her shoulder and sees Lupin’s left his mussed up hair alone, smiling after her.

She turns and follows Gemma into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Gemma already has an unlit cigarette between her lips, prying open the large window above Darcy’s bed. The cool November air hits Darcy full in the face, and she grabs Lupin’s cloak off the bed, wrapping herself in it and joining Gemma at the window. Gemma gives her a cigarette, and Darcy is struck with a sudden feeling of nostalgia and a longing to be back in seventh year again.

Darcy grabs her wand from underneath her pillow, using it to light her cigarette and taking a long drag. It’s harsh after not smoking one for so long, but it’s comforting all the same. Reminds her of better days spent in an elongated bathtub, gossiping about boys and drinking wine out of mismatched glasses. She and Gemma stick their heads out of the window to keep the smoke out of her bedroom.

“I’m with Madam Pomfrey tomorrow,” Gemma says, much more soft spoken than she’d just been in front of everyone. “Professor Dumbledore said I could sleep here if you’d have me.”

“Of course,” Darcy smiles. “Have we ever had a proper sleepover before?”

“No,” Gemma laughs. “I don’t think so.”

Darcy examines Gemma’s profile for a moment as they smoke in silence. She’s always thought Gemma a beautiful girl, even with a cigarette between her lips, but ever since Mrs. Duncan had been murdered, there’s a tiredness that makes Gemma look much older. Her eyes are heavy, more pronounced while intoxicated, and she stares off into the distant grounds, fixed upon the Forbidden Forest, seemingly lost in thought.

“I shouted at Dumbledore last night,” Darcy remembers, pushing her hair out of her face. “I said cruel things, Gemma.”

“He isn’t holding it against you, whatever you might have said,” Gemma tells her, giving Darcy a thin-lipped smile. “He’d mentioned to Lupin and me that you were upset last night. He was glad we decided to come.”

“I’m glad you did come—both of you,” Darcy says. “Truly.”

“Harry’s been quiet tonight,” Gemma notes, taking a long pull off her cigarette.

“I can only imagine why.”

“Come on, Darcy,” Gemma continues, flicking her cigarette out of the window. “You know we’ll make sure Harry’s all right. You thought you were the only one I came for? You think Lupin didn’t come to see Harry, as well?”

Darcy stares at Gemma, so full of love she could burst. My family, she thinks. But the thought makes her sad, too. Emily should be here—Emily had been her family since she was eleven years old. Carla should be here—Carla had grown up with them too, had been at their sides for years. Sirius should be here—Sirius and the love she thought she’d forgotten, her true family.

“You’re my best friend, Gemma,” Darcy says. “Why are you even friends with me?”

Gemma smiles fondly at Darcy. “What better way to rebel against my parents than to befriend Darcy Potter?” She pulls Darcy into a tight hug. “And you’ve grown on me.”

The rest of the evening is a blur. Darcy spends most of it at Lupin’s side, listening to the conversation. Hermione asks Gemma once if she’d like to join S.P.E.W., and after hearing Hermione out, all that Gemma says is, “You better cut that shit out, Hermione.” If Hermione is angry with her, it does not last long, and Hermione doesn’t ask again.

The hours slip by—eight o’clock, nine o’clock—and when the clock strikes ten, Lupin decides it’s time for him to go home. Darcy follows him into the bedroom to retrieve his traveling cloak, and when he wraps it around himself, Darcy kisses him hard. Lupin stumbles with the force of her kiss.

“You know, I can see you!” Harry shouts.

Darcy pulls away from Lupin, looking up into the handsome face shrouded in darkness. She holds him in his place by the front of his robes, and she sees Lupin cast an awkward glance towards the partially opened door, where Harry is looking at them severely. Darcy smiles weakly, brushing off the front of Lupin’s cloak. “I’ll walk you down,” she whispers, standing on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I’d like that.”

The two of them slip out of the portrait hole quickly as Gemma snaps at Harry and Hermione from within (“All right, children—time to clean up the mess we’ve made.”). With the corridors free of other watchful eyes or distractions, Darcy grabs hold of his hand, holding onto it with both of her own. They walk slowly, struggling to keep their strides short as their legs carry them quickly through the corridors. Their footsteps echo throughout the cavernous ceiling, and Darcy rests her head against Lupin’s upper arm, appreciating even this small amount of alone time.

“It’s just like old times, isn’t it?” Darcy laughs quietly, looking around her. “I miss it.”

“Do you?” Lupin asks incredulously, raising an eyebrow and looking down at her. “As wonderful as some of those days were, I think I much prefer things the way they are now.”

Darcy laughs again, her smile fading slowly. “I’m glad Dumbledore let you visit. I wish you could stay.”

“Me too,” Lupin replies, and his voice carries throughout the lonely halls. “Dumbledore seemed to think it was only a matter of time before I arrived. I think he expected you to write to me after last night.”

“Did he tell you what I said?” Darcy asks, her heart racing again. The wine and firewhiskey has made her head buzz. “Did he tell you anything?”

Lupin smiles weakly, rubbing the back of his neck and fussing with his hair. “He said you were most unlike yourself,” Lupin answers carefully. “You were distraught and surely didn’t truly mean what you’d said.”

“Is it true about Dumbledore offering you the job here?” Darcy blurts out barely before he finishes. “Is it true Dumbledore went to you and asked you to keep an eye on me?”

He chuckles. “Dumbledore came to me and told me that something had happened the previous year that had left a student of his in a state of unease. He was worried about them, and thought I might be able to help.” Lupin squeezes her hand and releases it, putting a hand on the small of her back as they make their way down a flight of moving stairs. “I thought he was mad to suggest I could comfort a student that I didn’t know—that didn’t know me. But when he told me it was you, Darcy, I—I thought if I went to you, comforted you, then it would make up for all the years I was away. All the years that I’d left you and Harry alone.”

Darcy smiles, blushing furiously. She wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him to her tight. “You came to Hogwarts for me,” she teases, nuzzling into his cloak as they reach another flight of stairs.

“Is that so surprising?”

“No—I suppose not. But it is good to know.”

Darcy and Lupin linger on the steps just outside Hogwarts, looking at each other, unsure of what to say or what to do. Holding both of his hands loosely in her own, she asks again, “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you down to Hogsmeade?”

“I’ll manage. Besides, you have company.”

Darcy frowns. “It’s your company I want.”

“You’ll get my company in a few days time.” Lupin smiles at her, raising a hand to tuck a few strands of loose hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling?”

“A little drunk, maybe.” Darcy looks up into his face and sighs heavily. “I’m frightened. Everything happened so quickly.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Lupin whispers, his fingertips brushing across her cheekbone. “I’m here.”

He hesitates, looking into her eyes for a split second before leaning into her. His nose barely brushes hers, and Darcy closes her eyes to feel his lips against her own, but someone clears their throat and they jump away from each other quickly, flushing. Lupin turns to the open doors of Hogwarts and Darcy laughs nervously at the sight of Professor McGonagall.

“Miss Potter,” McGonagall says crisply, lips pursed as she watches the scene. “It’s getting late, and I’d feel much better knowing you’re safe in your own room instead of wandering the grounds. You understand, of course, given recent circumstances.”

Darcy exhales deeply, running a hand through her hair. “I’ll be in in a moment, Professor.”

“Now would be preferable, Potter.”

Exasperated, Darcy looks back to Lupin. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “The price of being Darcy Potter, I suppose.”

“Potter!”

“Coming, Professor McGonagall,” Darcy says in a voice of forced calm. It’s hard to keep her frustration at bay. Looking up at Lupin again, she breathes, “I love you.”

Lupin smiles, taking her hand in his again and kissing her knuckles. Professor McGonagall gives another loud sigh. “Tell me everything that happens,” he tells Darcy. “Don’t leave out a single thing—I want to know it all.”

“Mr. Lupin, _please_ —”

“And let me know when the first task is. I want to be here for it.”

“This is quite enough—”

“And I promise, when I see you again, I’ll kiss you proper.” He glances over at McGonagall, waiting impatiently for them to finish. “Goodbye, Darcy.”

Without warning, Lupin kisses her cheek quickly and holds up a hand in acknowledgement to McGonagall as he starts down the path to Hogsmeade. Darcy touches the place on her cheek with light fingers where his kiss has made her skin burn hot. She watches him go, smiling absently, wishing for nothing more than to be able to go with him, to kiss him a thousand times, to show him how much she loves him and how much it means to her that he’s come to comfort her and Harry. And then, thin fingers pinch down on her ear and she cries out as McGonagall pulls her into the entrance hall, the tall doors of Hogwarts closing with a crash behind them.

When McGonagall lets go of her earlobe, Darcy scowls at her, rubbing the hurt away—or attempting to. Her earlobe feels twice its normal size, stinging painfully. “Professor, I’m not a student anymore!” she protests, grumbling under her breath and quieting at McGonagall’s sharp look. “What did you do that for? We were only saying goodbye—I would have just been a few more minutes.”

“You may not be a student anymore,” McGonagall says, giving Darcy a gentle push towards the marble staircase. “But that does not mean you have the right to parade around this school with a boy.”

“A boy?” Darcy laughs, earning her another glare. “Professor, it’s only Remus.”

“Let me rephrase myself,” the older witch continues, clearing her throat again and climbing the stairs with Darcy. “You are nineteen-years-old, just recently finished with school, and to be wandering the school after dark with a man twice your age seems very irresponsible after what has just happened to your brother.”

Darcy can’t help but laugh. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to me,” she says quietly, looking down at her feet and smiling to herself as they walk up the stairs and through the corridors together. “I love him, Professor.”

McGonagall says nothing, but purses her lips tighter together.

“He is good to me,” Darcy continues, lifting her eyes to look Professor McGonagall in the face. “Better to me than anyone I’ve ever known. Don’t think I don’t know what it looks like. Don’t think I don’t know you all think he’s taking advantage of me, that I’m some stupid little girl who’s never been loved before.” She thinks of Lupin’s tenderness and gentility and willingness to listen—never condescending, never superior.

Professor McGonagall puts a gentle hand on Darcy’s shoulder. She smiles weakly, slowing her pace, and Darcy slows to match her. “He was always a sweet boy, even at Hogwarts,” she recalls quietly. “A troublemaker, of course, who knew how to test my limits and push my buttons—but a sweet boy. One of my favorites.”

Her words and sentiment makes Darcy smile. They arrive outside of the portrait to Darcy’s apartments and she slips inside before McGonagall can say anything else. Harry and Hermione are still there, putting their sweaters back on.

“Be careful,” Darcy warns them. “McGonagall’s skulking around out there.” Harry only gives her a sly grin, pulling from his sweater pocket the Invisibility Cloak. As he drapes it over himself and Hermione, Darcy opens the door, looks around for McGonagall, and whispers, “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Closing the door one last time, Darcy sighs with her back against it, watching Gemma cross the room with five plates in her hand. She places them on the counter, looking at Darcy warily. “Are you all right?”

Darcy breathes in deeply, feeling her eyes burn with tears. Now that her room is near empty, the crushing realization hits her—Harry’s a champion, and if he dies during the tournament, she will have failed him and her parents and herself. She rubs her eyes, forcing herself not to cry—she must not cry—she has to stop being such a _baby_. “No,” she whimpers.

Gemma claps her hands together, wiping her palms on her thighs. “Do you want to go to bed?”

This idea pleases Darcy, and when the two of them are changed and warm under the blankets with the window thrown wide open and puffing on cigarettes, Darcy tells Gemma how it happened that night—how Darcy had almost expected it to happen when the Goblet of Fire’s flames turned red, how everyone immediately accused her of putting Harry’s name in when she entered the room. Darcy tells Gemma how Snape had waited with her in Dumbledore’s office—how Snape had believed her. She recalls going down to Hogsmeade with Ludo Bagman—his promise to help Harry through the tournament and his ominous warning regarding Rita Skeeter. Gemma listens carefully all the while, the gears in her brain working fast, her eyes glossed over as she stares at Darcy, thinking hard.

“All right,” Gemma says finally, after a long silence. “So Dumbledore believes you—Snape, Ludo Bagman, Harry, Hermione, Lupin, Mad-Eye, and me. That seems like a hell of a team to me.”

“You think Emily will believe me?” Darcy asks, suddenly fearful. She hadn’t written to Emily, but Darcy makes a mental note to write tomorrow.

“Maybe,” Gemma hums. “But no matter what, you know she’ll come to your defense.”

_Will she_? Darcy asks herself. _She didn’t come to my defense after what her father said to me. She didn’t come visit to comfort me afterwards. And now Gemma expects me to write to her like nothing happened_. True—Emily had leapt to her defense many times before against reporters and older students and sometimes her own friends.

“Hey,” Darcy whispers in the darkness. Gemma hums again, waiting for her to continue. “I’m seeing Sirius again soon.”

“How?”

“He’s coming to Remus’s for a little bit. No one will find him there.”

Gemma, who’s in the middle of getting comfortable in bed, stops, turning to face Darcy with a small smile. “Does Sirius know about you and Lupin?”

“Well—” Darcy says, clearing her throat and blushing slightly. “I mean—I wanted to tell him in person.”

Gemma laughs, closing her eyes and sighing. “Oh—to be a fly on the wall for that conversation…”

 


	26. Chapter 26

The story breaks Monday morning.

Darcy arrives late to breakfast, having walked Gemma down to the hospital wing first. At the threshold of the doors, Darcy feels people watching her, their attention momentarily diverted from Harry. The Great Hall seems longer than ever—even longer when Darcy had stood in this exact spot when she was eleven-years-old, about to be paraded past all of the students to be Sorted. She looks around at the students; some have looked back down at their plates, but others whisper to each other, including Carla and her friends. Harry and Hermione watch Darcy from the Gryffindor table, and she looks at the staff table, hoping to block out the murmuring. She wonders how Harry is feeling. After all, not only is the entire school staring and whispering about him, but he’ll have to compete alongside much more ready champions.

Snape is looking at her, eyebrows raised, nodding curtly at the empty chair beside him. In his hands is the day’s newspaper and Darcy’s heart begins to race, the all too familiar, pounding drumbeat against her chest. He beckons her forward with his index finger and Darcy’s feet begin to move of their own accord, carrying her past the long House tables. Professor Karkaroff catches her eye halfway to the staff table, but Darcy looks away quickly, taking her seat beside Snape and wishing with all her heart that Ludo Bagman could join them.

As soon as she sits down, Snape hands her one of the inside pages of the _Daily Prophet_. She takes it from him and he points to a small blurb in a corner of the page.

_TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT CHAMPIONS NAMED_

_Viktor Krum, Durmstrang Institute_  
Fleur Delacour, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic  
Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Harry Potter, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

_Many surprises came the night of October the 31st when the Goblet of Fire named the champions who will be competing in this year’s Triwizard Tournament. When Harry Potter’s name was presented by the Goblet of Fire, students and teachers were left dumbfounded, as underage students were not permitted to put forth their names. Many point to his sister, Darcy Potter, who graduated from Hogwarts in June and who now holds the title of assistant to Professor Severus Snape. The Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, has declined to comment at this time._

Darcy stares at the article, feeling a sense of anticlimax. This is nothing, she thinks. She had been expecting a front page article written by Rita Skeeter, attacking Darcy and Harry’s credibility. But this article is nothing but the truth—people are pointing at her as the reason Harry’s name has shot from the red flames on Halloween. She looks at Snape, lowering the paper, noticing something in his hand. “What is that?” she asks, looking at the seal on the envelope. A scarlet blob of dried wax, with a large and curly _M_ right in the middle of it.

“It came for you with the post,” Snape answers, giving her the letter.

She takes it hesitantly, flipping it over. On the front of the envelope, written in the neatest handwriting that she’s ever seen. And then Darcy takes a closer look at the handwriting—notices the way the _y_ at the end of her name becomes part of the _p_ in Potter. She knows that handwriting, and with a growing sense of excitement, Darcy tears open the envelope and pulls out the parchment within.

Another feeling of anticlimax and disappointment sweeps over her. Darcy frowns, looking down at the single sentence, seemingly written in a hurry.

_Meet me at the Three Broomsticks Wednesday at 8._

Darcy reads it over again, feeling this is a very inadequate letter considering all that had happened at Emily’s house. Nevertheless, she folds up the parchment and stuffs it into her pocket, eating breakfast distractedly and thinking hard. She tries to focus on the one good thing about the letter—it’s one less one Darcy has to write out. Of course Emily would know—news travels quickly at the Ministry of Magic, she’s sure, and if Emily is still working a few days a week at the _Daily Prophet_ , she may have access to information that could be of use to Darcy.

The first Potions class Monday morning is a nightmare—Carla doesn’t speak to her at all throughout the lesson, instead giving her an accusing stare every so often before whispering with her classmates. The younger students in the other classes, however, are a bit more bold—they openly harass Darcy, calling her a cheat and a liar, until Snape silences the class with a single, dangerous, “ _Enough_.” If Darcy didn’t hate him so much, she would have thanked Snape and shown a little gratitude.

But the general attitude of the students towards her puts her in a such foul mood that evening, that Darcy corners Carla after dinner, wanting nothing more than to shake sense into her. At the sight of Darcy’s scowl, Carla’s friends retreat quickly, leaving the two of them alone in the entrance hall. Carla doesn’t falter, keeping a cool, almost bored expression on her face. She shakes her head once, as if to get rid of an irksome fly, and a few ringlets shift to frame her dark face.

“What do you think I did it for?” Darcy asks coldly, stepping close to Carla.

“I don’t know _why_ you did it, do I?” Carla snaps, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “I just think it’s pretty rich that you spent weeks telling me not to enter the tournament and then you’d enter your kid brother. That’s cheating.”

“I didn’t put Harry’s name in and you know it,” Darcy retorts, her voice low.

“Who else would have put his name in, Darcy?” Carla asks heatedly. “You and Harry have had your little adventures—why can’t that be enough for you?”

“An _adventure_ , you’d call it, when Harry and I fought a basilisk together in the Chamber of Secrets? You think we choose for these things to happen to us? You thought we were having fun during all of our _adventures_? You wish you could have come along and witnessed what I’ve witnessed?”

“You couldn’t have let me have this one thing, could you?” Carla frowns, her voice becoming shriller. “You couldn’t let Hufflepuff have this one thing.”

“You and Cedric Diggory and Hufflepuff—you’re all welcome to this one thing,” Darcy counters. “But Harry never asked to be put in this situation and you’re out of your damn mind if you think I put his name in.”

“Who else would it have been?” Carla asks again. “Who else inside Hogwarts would have put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire?”

Darcy hesitates, glancing over both shoulders. A few students shuffle away quickly when they meet her eyes. “Someone in this school did it,” Darcy tells her, trying to calm herself. “Someone who wishes to do Harry harm—”

Carla scoffs, shaking her head slightly, her large eyes widened with disbelief. Darcy trails off, her chest heaving. “I don’t believe this,” Carla says quietly. “Darcy, no one in this school would do that. Dumbledore would know.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Then explain.”

“I’m trying!” Darcy covers her face with her hands, biting her tongue to keep from screaming in frustration. She looks back up at Carla, likely looking crazed. “You think I would gamble Harry’s life away by entering him into the Triwizard Tournament? You think, after everything I have sacrificed for Harry, I would run the risk of losing him?”

“I don’t know, Darcy,” Carla answers with barely a pause. “You’ve done other things I would never have expected of you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Darcy hisses, feeling a blush creep up the back of her neck, like she knows what’s coming. Carla pauses for a long time, and Darcy wishes she could become invisible, if only to hide her bright red cheeks. “Don’t be shy, Carla. Go ahead and say it.”

“You slept with your teacher.”

The entrance hall is empty; a few students still linger in the Great Hall eating a late dinner and chatting with friends from other Houses. The other students have already hurried up the marble staircase, rushed away from the scene Darcy is making. “That’s none of your business,” she growls. “It wasn’t hurting Harry.”

“You know what Emily said about you?” Carla says. “After you told me you slept with him? Emily said that you push boundaries and test limits because you’re Darcy Potter, and no one would do anything really terrible to poor, beautiful, naive Darcy Potter. How does it feel to be held accountable for your actions now?”

“I didn’t do it.” _I know the truth_. “You know I didn’t do it. I know you do.”

Carla clenches her jaw, staring up into Darcy’s face.

“There is someone dangerous in this school,” Darcy whispers, trying to make her see sense. “And we don’t know who it is. Harry is in danger, and Gemma wants to have Emily and Tonks investigate quietly.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m scared.” Darcy waits for a couple of Slytherins to clear the entrance hall. “First a Death Eater attack, and now Harry’s been chosen as a champion for a dangerous tournament. You can’t tell me there has to be a connection.”

“The say it was an isolated incident in the Prophet,” Carla protests. “I know you, Darcy. I know you see shadows lurking in every corner. I know you’re paranoid and anxious. But you’re truly sticking to this story?”

“I didn’t do it.”

Carla looks at her feet, fighting an internal conflict. After what seems like minutes, she lifts her head again. “I can’t root for him.”

Darcy blinks. “Sorry?”

“Harry. I can’t root for him. I have an obligation to root for Cedric.” She licks her lips and shrugs. “But I suppose, a Hogwarts win is better than nothing at all.”

Carla’s words, though nice to hear, do not have the calming effect Darcy had thought they would. “Did Emily really say that about me?”

Carla shifts uncomfortably. “Yes,” she sighs. “But you know she didn’t mean it.”

Darcy decides that she can just confront Emily about it Wednesday. Her pulse is pounding in her hears, and her hands are trembling. Feeling there is nothing more to be said to Carla, she turns and stalks back off towards her apartments.

But the attitude of the students does not go away as the days roll by. The Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, especially, taunt Darcy and Harry in the corridors and in classes, and Hermione and Harry both take dinner with Darcy in private during the first few days of the week. They eat mostly in silence, picking at their food and barely eating. Wednesday night, Darcy eats a hurried dinner and leaves Harry and Hermione in her room for Hogsmeade.

The weather has only gotten colder. The prospect of having both Lupin and Gemma in Hogsmeade by the end of the week has, so far, gotten her through the long days. She knows that, no matter what happens with Emily, she’ll be able to spend time with two people she loves the most—two believe who believe and support her and her brother. The idea makes her heart considerably light, and Darcy quickens her pace halfway down to Hogsmeade, wondering if there might be time to grab a drink with Ludo Bagman afterwards.

Emily is already at The Three Broomsticks when Darcy forces herself inside, her cheeks red with cold and the tip of her nose stings from the wind whipping at her face. She shrugs off her cloak, combing her hair with her fingers as she makes her way over to the corner of the shop. Emily looks down into a mug of something that’s steaming, her thumb tracing the lip of it. Darcy takes her seat across from Emily, looking around. The pub isn’t as busy as Darcy thought it might be, and no one pays them very much attention, for which Darcy is grateful.

As soon as Darcy gets comfortable, Emily asks, “Did you do it?”

“No.”

Emily looks at her for a long time, considering her. Darcy doesn’t falter. She shouldn’t need to explain herself to Emily. I know the truth.

“Then this is serious. Whoever put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire means him harm. Do you have any ideas?”

Shaking her head slowly, Darcy sighs. “I don’t know,” she answers helplessly.

Emily puts her elbows on the table, leaning in. Darcy is suddenly struck with a sudden realization of how professional Emily is—besides her apology and question, there was no way of greeting, no friendly hug or bright smile. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Darcy hesitates, ordering herself a drink and waiting for Madam Rosmerta to bring it to her. Once left alone, Darcy gives Emily a detailed play-by-play, starting from when the first champion had been chosen and ending with Darcy returning to the castle after having drinks with Ludo Bagman. Emily listens very carefully the entire time, nodding thoughtfully during some parts and narrowing her eyes at other and all the while tracing the rim of her mug. When Darcy finally finishes, Emily sits up straighter in her chair.

“Igor Karkaroff was a Death Eater, you know,” Emily tells her. “Kept out of Azkaban by giving names.”

Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know,” she shrugs. “It seems the obvious answer, but—he was furious when Harry’s name came out. Harry said Karkaroff was in a mind to leave with his champion because of it.”

“Yeah,” Emily agrees quietly. “I don’t think it would be him, either. Not with Dumbledore around and certainly not with Mad-Eye Moody there to keep an eye on him.” She strokes her pointed chin, biting her lip. “What if it happened before the Goblet of Fire came to Hogwarts?”

“Then it could be anyone.” This thought overwhelms her—there are plenty of people out there who’d like to see Harry dead, but which one could have possibly put Harry’s name in the Goblet? “Peter Pettigrew,” she says almost automatically.

Emily shakes her head. “There’s been no sign of him,” she says. “No one’s looking is the problem. Everyone thinks Peter Pettigrew is dead. I’ve tried to track him, but I don’t have access to everything the Aurors do.”

“Isn’t anyone investigating this?” Darcy asks, scoffing. “Is no one interested in this? I mean—do you—” She stops abruptly as a server returns with more drinks for them. Darcy thanks him politely, smiling at Emily. She ignores him. “Do you think it could be connected to what happened at the Quidditch World Cup?”

“Yes, I do. It’s too much of a coincidence,” Emily breathes. “But no one wants to believe they’re connected. It’s a perfect opportunity to discredit you and Harry. I don’t think Fudge wants to believe the Death Eaters are on the rise again—it frightens people.”

Darcy digests this. She can feel rage beginning to muster in her—the anger of knowing that Fudge doesn’t care, that he will do nothing to help Harry and Darcy, that he will ignore the connection. “Gemma had an idea the other night,” Darcy continues, taking a long drink of wine. “She wanted me to talk to you about possibly investigating on your own, with Tonks—only to see if you can find something to show the Aurors that something is terribly wrong. Remus thinks if it sparks a real investigation, it would be worth it.”

For the first time, Emily cracks a smile. It makes Darcy smile, as well. But just as quick as it appears, her smile fades. “Darcy,” Emily starts, frowning and sighing heavily. “Dad should never have said those things to you.”

“Oh.” Darcy isn’t sure what to say. She already knows that Emily doesn’t blame her for her mother’s death, but to know that her father is likely whispering in Emily’s ear about Darcy makes her uncomfortable. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Emily insists. They’re quiet for a moment, looking at each other. “Okay. I’ll do it. And I’ll talk to Tonks about it.”

Conversation comes much easier to them afterwards. Darcy tells Emily about her classes and what happened with Carla just before she came down to Hogsmeade, and she’s so grateful to just be with Emily that she doesn’t mention what Carla admitted about Emily. After Darcy finishes that story, Emily snorts.

“You know that she doesn’t truly believe that, right?”

Darcy’s quite tired of hearing that line. She sighs again, sorry she had brought it up. “Gemma and Remus will be here tomorrow. You should take some time off work to come visit.”

“I can’t,” Emily answers. “I’ve got a shift at the _Prophet_ tomorrow night.”

“Okay.”

Silence falls over them again and Emily looks down at her cup, stirring the liquid within with a spoon. “Still going strong then?”

Darcy finishes her wine before answering. “Yes. But maybe we could talk about something else.”

“I’ve got to run, actually,” Emily replies, checking her watch. She holds up a hand and summons a server over to them. She reaches in her pocket and pays for her and Darcy’s drink. “Dad’s likely waiting for me.” She stands, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair and sliding it on.

“You’re leaving?” Darcy asks, startled, and standing up with Emily. “Already?”

“Sorry, Darcy. But I’m a busy girl now. I’ll write to you the next time I can visit and I’ll keep you updated if I find anything.” For the first time that night, Emily hugs Darcy tightly to her. She pulls away, holding Darcy at arms’ length and looking her over with a small smile. “I’ll be here for the first task.”

“But there’s still so much I have to tell you!”

Emily moves quickly, moving through the throng of customers and leaving Darcy standing alone and confused.

* * *

“Would you stop squirming? You’re being a baby.”

“I’m not being a baby.”

“You totally are—stop—” Gemma wrestles with Lupin’s arm for a moment, and Darcy watches them from the bed. In Gemma’s hand is a long needle, filled with a yellowish liquid. “You are a grown man, and if you don’t— _stop_!—sit still, I’m going to stick it in your ass—stop it—and make Darcy hold you down.”

“Don’t you dare,” Lupin growls, tearing his arm from Gemma’s hand.

Gemma stares at him incredulously, frustrated and flushed. She looks to Darcy, still lying on the bed, too exhausted to intervene. In fact, it’s been almost entertaining watching and listening to Lupin and Gemma squabble and argue for the past hour. Already tense due to the upcoming full moon, Lupin hasn’t stopped snapping at Gemma since she arrived, but Darcy doesn’t feel very up to telling him he started it. “Darcy,” Gemma hisses. “Would you tell him he’s being a baby?”

Darcy rubs her eyes. “Just let her stick you already, would you?”

“Nowhere in that waiver did I see that you’d be injecting unknown, untested potions into my veins.”

“I gave you the ingredient list when I got here,” Gemma counters, her frustration growing more evident with each second that Lupin refuses to give her his arm.

“That meant nothing to me,” Lupin argues. “I was going to have Darcy look it over—just to make sure.”

Growling under her breath, Gemma pulls up her sleeve to reveal a small prick on her skin. “Look, you idiot—I’ve tested it on myself already. If this was going to kill you, it would have killed me already.”

“You’re not a werewolf,” Lupin scoffs.

Gemma sighs, composing herself with extreme difficulty. She holds up the needle and looks at him with wide eyes. “I am going to count to five,” she says slowly. “If this needle is not in your arm by five, I’m going to Stun you and stick it in your ass for good measure. Now roll your goddamn sleeve up, Remus Lupin.”

Lupin sighs, rolling his eyes and glancing at Darcy. She nods at him impatiently and watches as Lupin pushes up his sleeve and extends his arm. Gemma huffs, wrapping the cord around his arm and feeling for a vein. She slides the needle in and pushes the potion into him. This time, when Gemma pulls it out, she throws a piece of cloth at his face instead of holding it over the prick herself.

“Like I said,” Gemma says, Vanishing the used needle with a swift flick of her wand. “Keep taking your potion, but you’ll want to go to the Shrieking Shack to transform, just in case. Feeling all right so far?”

“Besides the bruising to my ego,” Lupin mutters. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“It might swell. Mine did for a day or two and then it went down. I didn’t have any side effects that I’m aware of, but I did give myself a smaller dose. Just record everything and I’ll look it over after the week is done.”

Lupin nods, checking his arm for any swelling. His skin has turned red due to the pinch the needle had given him.

“You’re one of the worst damn patients I’ve ever had.”

“I don’t want to tell you how to do your job—”

“Then don’t,” Gemma says quickly.

Lupin’s voice is cold. “All I’m saying is that your bedside manner could use some working on.”

She ignores him. “You okay, Darcy?” Gemma asks, glancing over her shoulder towards the bed as she packs up her things. Her tone is much gentler now, any frustration completely gone from her voice. “Awfully quiet over there.”

Emily’s abrupt departure and overall strange attitude had been the first thing Darcy told the both of them when she arrived in Hogsmeade after classes. That, combined with the open mocking and taunting and the flares of angry students still going strong, Darcy doesn’t feel much like talking at all. The entire thing reminds her of the Chamber of Secrets being opened again—people had shunned both she and Harry because of it, and now Darcy can’t help but feel it’s going to be the same way in a few more days. The other Houses have already started to ignore Harry completely, and even a few sole Gryffindors, Ron included, have become wary of him. Regardless, it’s a feeling that Darcy doesn’t wish to experience again. But that’s something she’d prefer to express lying in bed with Lupin’s arms around her to comfort her as she cries.

“I’m fine.”

Gemma shuts her trunk, and Darcy’s thankful she doesn’t press her for a different answer. She offers Darcy a smile and then turns to Lupin once more. “I’ll be with Madam Pomfrey Saturday, and then I’ll be back Tuesday morning to check on you after the full moon.” She glances down at her watch. “Then Thursday I’m with Madam Pomfrey again. I’ll be back for your log around dinner, so make sure it’s detailed. If you feel anything is wrong, either write me, come to St Mungo’s and ask for me, or Madam Pomfrey might be able to help you. I let her know what we’ve done here tonight.”

Lupin nods, his eyes fixed upon Darcy. “Thank you, Gemma.”

Gemma smiles weakly. “Good luck.” She walks over to Darcy and bends down, kissing her hard on the cheek as if she were Darcy’s own mother. The gesture surprises Darcy, but she’s too tired to look surprised at all. “I’ll see you both Saturday. Keep an eye on him for me, Darcy.”

Gemma closes the door with a snap after glowering at Lupin. As soon as her footsteps recede, Darcy looks at him. “You were being a bit of a baby,” she tells him. Lupin scowls, but rearranges his expression quickly. “Come here.”

Lupin does as she tells him and Darcy sits up, taking his arm in her hands and lifting his sleeve. She runs her fingertips over the tiny puncture in his forearm, where the area is already swelling slightly. Darcy kisses it, brushing her lips over the violent scar a few inches below it, a severe and frightening reminder of what he is. He flinches when her lips touch the scar, and Darcy lifts her head quickly.

They both speak at the same time, in soft whispers. “Sorry.”

Darcy only shakes her head, lowering his sleeve again.

“Is this what’s become of me?” Lupin asks quietly, laughing in disbelief. “An experiment?”

“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Darcy answers, pulling her knees to her chest and feeling guilty. “Gemma said you can choose to quit anytime.”

“She means well,” Lupin sighs. “Maybe she’s doing it for fame or money, but it’s a good thing she’s doing. And maybe—maybe something good might come of this.”

Darcy’s shoulder twinges, and the feeling is so unexpected that she instinctively raises her hand to it. She catches herself quickly, but not before Lupin notices. His weak smile fades.

“What are you doing here, Darcy?” he asks, not unkindly, but his words don’t sit well with Darcy.

“What do you mean?” Darcy says. Wanting nothing more than to curl up beneath her blankets and sleep for days, Darcy moves away from him. “Do you want me to go?”

“No, I—” Lupin hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “How can you look at me and not see me for what I truly am?”

Darcy gets to her feet, shrugging her shoulders. She looks him over, admires him. He had come to comfort her when she needed him—since she’d met him at Hogwarts again, he’d always been there when she needed him. Should she not do the same for him? Would she really leave him in this state? Vulnerable and exhausted and pathetic?

With Lupin still seated upon the edge of the bed, Darcy walks over to him. His head comes to the top of her breasts, and Lupin looks up at her. Unsure of what to say, what words will make him feel better, Darcy wraps her arms around him. Lupin nuzzles his face against her chest, sitting very still.

“You are my dearest friend, my love,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against her sweater.

Darcy feels overwhelmed with love for him—love that she isn’t sure how to put into words. She holds him tighter. “And you are mine.”

It’s only when she crawls back in her own bed later that night does Darcy remember she hadn’t even told Lupin how much she loves him. She almost gets right back out of bed to march down the long path to Hogsmeade, but sleep takes her before she can move.


	27. Chapter 27

Gemma’s first attempt at a cure for the symptoms of lycanthropy is a massive disaster, as Darcy finds out Saturday morning.

When she enters his room in The Three Broomsticks, she’s overwhelmed by the scent of sick, and the sound of violent heaving comes from the bathroom. Darcy drops her things on the bed and hurries to the bathroom, cracking her hip on the corner of the loveseat as she goes. She swears under her breath, squeezing inside the tiny, tiny bathroom that’s barely big enough for the two of them. As she kneels beside him, her back pressed against the bathtub, Lupin heaves again, and Darcy closes her eyes as he vomits into the toilet. She kisses his shoulder, resting her cheek against him.

“Let me go get Gemma,” she whispers, kissing his shoulder again, not at all looking forward to walking back up to and down from the castle. Already, from the amount of walking she’s been doing lately, her thighs and calves have been sore more often than not. Darcy presses her lips softly against his temple, making to stand. “I’ll be back, my love.”

“No,” Lupin rasps, grabbing her by the wrist tight. Darcy freezes and he sits back against the closed door, panting, not releasing her. His face is drained of all color, sweat on his brow, dark circles under his eyes. “I’ll be fine. Just—give me a moment.”

Darcy touches his forehead, nearly burning her own flesh. His entire face is hotter than she’d ever felt, but he doesn’t shake her off. “Gemma told you to tell her if something like this happened,” Darcy frowns. “If you won’t let me get her, at least let me take care of you until she comes.”

Lupin smiles weakly, his eyes half-closed as he looks at her. He breathes in deeply and pushes himself to his feet, Darcy grabbing his arm and pulling. Lupin sways for a moment and stumbles, falling into the corner of the bathroom and regaining his balance. “Sorry,” he mumbles, gripping Darcy’s shoulder to steady himself. “Dizzy.”

Darcy gets him to brush his teeth and she cleans the mess off the bathroom floor, turning the water on in the bathtub. Lupin leans against her as it fills, his face buried in her shoulder. And when the bathtub is filled with cool water, she helps him undress and helps him in. It pains her to see him like this, knowing that she’d been the one to convince him to agree to Gemma’s terms. He’s mostly dead weight, much heavier than Darcy had expected, and he closes his eyes as soon as he settles in the water, his head lolling onto his shoulder, breathing slowly, deathly pale. The bathtub is much too small for him, and Lupin’s knees break the surface of the water; much of his chest is showing, as well.

“Remus?” Darcy whispers, touching his cheek to see if he’ll stir. “Remus?”

“Hm?” He doesn’t even open his eyes to look at her.

Darcy wonders if it would be smart to leave him in the bath by himself in such a state. “Maybe I should get Gemma,” she suggests quietly. “I could send one of the owls from the post office. I’m worried for you.”

“I’m not,” he whispers, and when Darcy opens her mouth to protest, he adds, “You’re here.”

Frowning, feeling guiltier than ever, Darcy feels tears prickle painfully in her eyes as she cups his cheek, brushing a wet thumb across his skin. He barely stirs, but exhales loudly at her touch. This is her fault, she thinks, her fault that he’s sitting here suffering, that he’s been reduced to no more than an experiment—her fault that things are worse, that he’s become so ill. To be fair, she thought it would be different, that Gemma’s experimental potions would make him better, would make his life easier if only for a few days. Never did she even consider that it would make life harder, make his already incredibly difficult week even more difficult.

Nearly thirty years he’s been doing this—the same nearly every time, and now Darcy imagines it must be slightly frightening to be affected so intensely, to not know what to expect. If she had only kept her mouth shut, not tried to convince him to accept Gemma’s offer, if only she’d let him make up his own mind—things might be different, easier for him. That’s all she wanted—all she wanted was for things to be easy, to help him through the tough times.

She quickly wipes her tears away before he can see them, but almost as if he’s sensed her crying, Lupin’s eyes flutter open barely a fraction of an inch. He looks at her through heavy, tired eyes. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?” he asks, giving her a small, forced smile. “I’m ill, not dying.”

With her hand still upon his burning cheek, Darcy sits up on her knees and lean into him, kissing him softly. He does respond to this, kissing her back—perhaps not as fiercely as he would usually kiss her—but kissing her all the same. It’s sweet and wet and minty still from his toothpaste, and Darcy pulls away. “I’ll leave you,” she whispers, wanting to cry without anyone watching her. “Call for me if you need me.”

“No, stay,” he says, shifting in the water as she gets to her feet. The cool water seems to have done him some good, but Darcy still thinks he could use a week’s worth of sleep—maybe even longer. “Come here, Darcy.”

With a few sweet, whispered words and a small smile when he purrs the words _I love you_ , Darcy succumbs easily to him and blushes madly. His eyes open a little wider now as she undresses with shaky hands, feeling incredibly nervous. He watches her lift her sweater over her head, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned. She continues to undress shyly, avoiding his eyes as she slips out of her pants, and Darcy feels his eyes traveling up her legs.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers, and Lupin laughs for the first time, just barely, but he does as she asks. “Don’t peek.”

Darcy smiles at him, his eyes closed, his head resting on the edge of the bathtub. His elbows rest on the tub’s edges, his arms wet and scarred, strong and warm. Darcy sheds the rest of her clothes, letting them pool on the floor at her feet. Inhaling sharply, Darcy gets in the bathtub.

The water is cool, cooler than room temperature—she’d forgotten. Darcy swears, gasping as goosebumps cover every inch of skin. Her muscles tense and Lupin shifts, giving her more room. Darcy forces herself to lay back against his chest, her head against his collarbone. She drapes her legs over the tub’s edge and lets herself adjust to the cool water, which does feel quite good after the stifling heat of the room, especially with the fire going. Lupin wraps an arm around her neck loosely, his fingers caressing the raised, pink scars on her shoulder. He runs a hand through her hair with his free hand, and the water that trickles down her neck is cold. Darcy closes her eyes when Lupin kisses her temple and rests his cheek atop her head.

She can feel his quickened heartbeat against her back, calming her, his fingers threading through her damp hair and brushing against her scars near lulling her to sleep. His skin is still warm, sticky with sweat and water. “How are you feeling?” he whispers in her ear.

“I’m fine.” She blushes fiercely, glad that he’s unable to see her face. Darcy’s never felt so close to anyone in her life—every day she spends with him seems to introduce her to intimacy at a level she’s never known or imagined could exist.

“The same answer you gave the other night,” he answers, his voice barely there. Darcy shivers. “It’s just us now, kitten.”

His words light a fire in her. Darcy wants to tell him everything, but she doesn’t know how to begin, or what to say. Everything seems so jumbled up in her head. She stirs the still water with her fingers. “When Harry and I were little, there was a creek we used to go to. We’d swim when it was hot, stripped down to our underwear and dirty and screaming,” she says, feeling the scruff of his beard against her forehead. “We were only children. We didn’t know about magic back then. We didn’t know anything about Voldemort.”

Lupin listens carefully, his breath quiet. The only indication that he hasn’t fallen asleep is the light kiss he gives her on her head again. Darcy inhales deeply, remembering the scene. The area of the creek they swam in had been hidden by tall trees with thick trunks, almost enclosing them, even blocking out the sky sometimes. The water had always been refreshing and cold, and sometimes curious fish would nibble at her toes.

“Harry was never a strong swimmer,” she continues. The water had never been too deep, and there was never a place that Darcy couldn’t touch the bottom. It had come up to Harry’s neck at the deepest part, and even then he’d be walking on his toes, a bright smile on his round face. “And one day, he went a little too far, and the current started to take him, and he was only a little boy. He went under a few times, screaming for me, and I pulled him out from under the water and brought him to the bank.”

In truth, she’d been frightened, shaken to the core. Harry had only been four or five at the time, and when she had dragged him to land, he’d spluttered up water for a few moments and coughed for days afterwards.

“We walked home that day, and we _laughed_ about it. I was a hero to him for a day and then it was forgotten,” Darcy remembers, smiling slightly. She’s quiet for a time before finishing, trying to feel Lupin’s heartbeat to remind her that she’s okay—she’s all right—she’s here with him, and that should be enough. “The creek frightened me after that. The creek, the Dursleys, Aunt Marge’s dog—that’s all I had to protect Harry from when we were kids.”

Lupin’s fingers stop tracing her scars; he covers her shoulder with his palm, holding her tight against him. Back then, when they were kids at that creek, Darcy hadn’t truly been a hero—she hadn’t done anything heroic other than walk over and grab his hand. He was so small as a boy, he had barely weighed anything, and she had pulled him out of the water with such ease.

“And now I realize those are nothing,” she sighs. “Nothing compared to the dangers now. I was never prepared for this—I never knew true danger until a few years ago, never knew true fear until Harry came to school.”

The ends of Darcy’s red hair splay around her, floating on the surface of the bath water and sticking to Lupin’s chest. Since Harry had come to Hogwarts, keeping him safe had not been as easy as pulling him from some shallow waters. She didn’t have to be brave to pull him ashore—but Darcy has had to be the past few years. To be so afraid of losing her other half, the reason that she’s alive, has forced her to put herself in between him and a three-headed dog, has forced her to come face to face with a basilisk and a memory of the young Voldemort, and she’d even put herself between Harry and his friends only the previous year when she thought Sirius Black was going to kill him. She had always done everything in her power to put herself between Harry and whatever danger was lurking close at hand, and now…

With Harry being forced to compete in the Triwizard Tournament as a champion, Darcy feels helpless. There is nothing she can do to shield him, to protect him, and no one can offer any explanation, cannot offer a guess as to who might have put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire. And the worst part is, people are blaming _her_.

_I know the truth._

“You worry too much,” he croaks. Lupin touches her chin gently, tilting her head back in order to get a good look at her.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Darcy tries to look away, but Lupin keeps her face still, brushing his thumb across her lips.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Do you trust me?”

Darcy nods slowly. “Yes.”

“Good,” Lupin whispers, a genuine smile gracing his face. “I won’t let anything happen to him.”

She looks up into his face for a long time, her eyebrows knitting together. It seems empty words—an empty promise—but Darcy wants to believe him. He _means_ it, means to help her protect Harry, and that means more to her than she can say. “Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Darcy pauses. “I never told you the other night and I should have,” she says, allowing his fingers to continue tracing the sharp angles of her face—the most gentle touch she’s ever known. “I love you.”

“I know,” Lupin smiles. The dark shadows under his eyes are reminiscent of bruises, his skin blanched still. “I know you do.”

He brushes some stray hairs out of her eyes, smiling down at her. His weak smile quickly fades as his eyes rove over her face.

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” he murmurs. “Too young to be weighed down with sadness and fear. Too young to know the horrors you’ve witnessed.”

She reaches up and traces a faint scar on his jawline, one that she knows is there, but is hidden by his coarse beard. They smile shyly at each other again, their cheeks pink. “Why are you so good to me?” she asks, attempting to wriggle in his arms, the better to look at him.

“Because I love you.” Lupin continues to look down at her, smiling, making her melt. His drags his knuckles lightly up and down her spine. “And because you’re mine,” he tells her, as if it’s the simplest and surest thing in the world.

Maybe, upon hearing them from another man’s mouth, the words would repulse her. Maybe, upon another man saying them, Darcy would fight it, would insist she is no one’s and she will never belong to someone. But there’s something sweet hearing the words come from Lupin, something that makes her think— _maybe being complete and utterly his wouldn’t be so bad_. His smile widens as she struggles to comprehend everything—to make sense of what being his might mean—and it’s his smile that makes her whisper back, “I’m yours.”

* * *

Lupin falls asleep quickly, his skin warming again now that he’s out of the cool water, his breathing slowing. On his neck is a fresh love bite, and underneath his shirt, Darcy knows there are more on his chest and stomach. She kisses his cheek lightly before getting up, but he doesn’t stir.

She had kissed him all over, the parts of him that weren’t submerged in water. When she’d kissed his neck, he’d thrown his head back and _laughed_ —as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he were a young man again, as if there was no one else in the world but the two of them. The sound of Lupin’s laughter had been so rich and so wonderful—a song that she hadn’t heard in what seemed like weeks.

He’d taken her there in the tiny bathtub, her back pressed against his chest, his ragged breathing echoing tenfold in her ear. His fingers had left red marks on her hips where he’d held her in place as he thrusted in and out of her. When Darcy cried out for him, he had shushed her, laughing in her ear.

“Quiet, kitten,” Lupin had whispered. “You don’t want anyone to hear us, do you?”

It made her smile to hear him address her like that, the soft, husky purr he adopted when he was inside of her. It was hard to keep quiet, but Darcy obliged, tilted her head back to look at him, to admire him as he ground his jaw, his chest heaving against her back. “I love you,” she’d whispered, earning her a smile in return.

It had seemed to go on forever, until Darcy’s body was limp with pleasure, until her core ached in the best way, until she was exhausted with the intensity of it all; Darcy had no idea her words would be his undoing, the simple whispered phrase: _I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours_. To realize how much control she had over him had excited her in ways she’s never felt, and Darcy isn’t like to forget that fact for the rest of her life.

Darcy douses the fire with water that streams from the tip of her wand. All is does it smoke her out, and she coughs and sputters as her face is engulfed by it. Still, it makes the room much cooler, and it can only be better for Lupin instead of the sweltering heat of the fire heating the small, cramped room.

When Gemma finally arrives to check in on Lupin, it’s nearing dinner time. He only stirs when Gemma closes the door rather noisily behind her. Upon hearing all of the side effects that Lupin’s been experiencing, she takes on an apologetic tone, apologizing over and over, and having no other advice other than “make sure you drink—stay hydrated” and “just keep a cool cloth on your face to ease the fever. It’ll pass in a few days”. She doesn’t linger afterwards.

“I’ve got dinner with my family, and I’m already running late. I’m sorry I can’t stay for a little while.” She gives Lupin a stern look. “Write to me if it worsens.”

He nods and lays back on his pillow, closing his eyes. Darcy walks Gemma to the door and sees her out. She spends the rest of the night at his side in bed, reading from a book she’d brought with her, Lupin’s face nuzzled into her side. When he begins to snore softly halfway through a chapter, Darcy sneaks away from him, grabbing some of the work she’d brought with her.

By the empty fireplace, Darcy grades fourth year homework, checking correct answers and correcting wrong ones. The remains of the fire still smolder, giving off some heat, not that it does Darcy any good. The cool water of the bath had chilled her bones after she’d gotten out of it. Even now, with her clothes warm and her hair dry, goosebumps are still visible on her skin.

It’s easy to become distracted from her work. The sounds of muffled diners and customers downstairs catches her attention first, and then the shifting of Lupin on the bed. Darcy turns around to look at him, spread out across the entire bed, his back rising and falling heavily. Putting her work down, she slips in bed with him, kissing his cheek and letting Lupin wrap his arms around her before falling asleep again. It isn’t long until Darcy falls asleep, too.

Sunday shows Darcy a side of Lupin she’s never seen before. He’s short with her, pushing her hand away when she tries to cool his flesh with a damp cloth; shouts at her when she suggests writing to Gemma. Lupin’s eyes are colder and glazed over, his jaw always tense, hardly able to walk without needing to lean on Darcy. Yet several times that day he takes her from behind, pounding into her at a severe pace with strength that surprises her. He doesn’t speak to her while he does this, barely kisses her, and he always leaves her completely exhausted, her thighs sore and shaking uncontrollably—both desperate for more, and slightly overwhelmed. Even his kisses are greedy and hungry and bruising—his touch rough, groping her with the grace of a thirteen-year-old boy. Darcy doesn’t mind, truly, and doesn’t say a word against it. Privately, it makes butterflies flutter in her the stomach at the thought of him feeling she is his to use, but as the sun begins to set, Darcy doesn’t think she can take much more. It’s tiring, and she wants to sleep in her own bed and recover.

When she tells Lupin she’s going to head back to the castle as dinner starts in Great Hall, it’s slightly alarming how quickly his face changes. Suddenly he’s pathetic again, sickly and dreading the upcoming transformation. There is no more coldness in his eyes, and his entire face softens. “No,” he pleads quietly, reaching out for her hands and pulling Darcy to him. “Please stay—oh, Darcy—” He wraps his arms around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. “I’m sorry, my love, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Darcy chuckles, pulling away from him and kissing him on the mouth. Lupin doesn’t respond with the ferocity he had shown earlier, and she can’t help but smile.

He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up in frustration. “I’m sorry,” he says again, sighing. “This is a—trying time for me right now.”

“I know,” Darcy whispers, touching his cheek. She kisses him again softly, sighing when she pulls away again. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“I’ll be fine,” he answers. “Are you sure you won’t stay a little longer? I know I haven’t been good to you today—let me make it up to you before you go.”

Darcy laughs weakly. “I don’t think I can—”

“Trust me.”

She does, and the rest of the night is spent on the loveseat, Lupin’s arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly to him, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead. He praises her constantly, sighing his love for her in her ear, a completely different man than he’d been only a little while ago. Darcy spends much of the evening with a pink tint to her cheeks, letting his fingertips bring warmth to her skin as he traces patterns on her arms. She remembers the feeling of his palm when she’d met him on the Hogwarts Express, how he’d smiled that easy smile at her and shook her hand slowly and the warmth from his skin had shot up her arm, warmed her very heart and soul.

To be here, with him, makes Darcy never want to leave. She’s always had difficulty turning away from him, leaving him to go back to what seems like another life, where it’s hard to get out of bed some days, and there is always pain and there is always hurting and her bones ache with deep seeded exhaustion, where the memories of past horrors haunt her almost constantly, especially when she’s alone in bed. It’s harder to leave him now, knowing she’ll be going back up to Hogwarts where the students throw her dangerous and accusing looks, where even the teachers seem wary of her. All except Snape, who has been his usual self—the fact that he hasn’t changed his attitude towards her is comforting, despite the anger and dislike behind some of his words towards her.

When Darcy does finally pry herself from Lupin’s arms, apologizing for having to leave him and kissing his face all over, and makes her way back to her private room, she sits in front of the fire for a long time. Without Lupin to distract her from the future, it’s hard not to dwell on the possibilities—what will happen to Harry? What are the tasks and how will he overcome them? What attention will this mishap draw towards the two of them? And the question that’s been on the forefront of her mind recently— _where is Sirius and what is he doing? Is he even thinking of me? Does he even remember that we’re a family?_

She searches through all of her things for the photo album, but it’s nowhere to be found, and Darcy is forced to accept that it’s likely tucked away in Gryffindor Tower, in Harry’s trunk or in his bedside table. When she accepts this, she lays in bed, crying—crying for her parents—for her mother to tell her how to be loved without feeling so undeserving of it, crying for her father to hold her in his arms and show her how she should be loved. But no arms encircle her as she tries to sleep. Her parents are never coming back. They will never speak to her again, never hold her, never smile at her. They will never see how far she’s come—they will never see what their deaths have done to their daughter.

How could they have known? she asks herself. How could they have known they’d be subjecting their only daughter to a lifetime of sacrifice and neglect and loneliness? Darcy sniffles, burying her face into her pillow. And what would they say if they could see what has happened to her?

Darcy, after laying awake for a while, thinking, she comes to the conclusion that she doesn’t want to dream. She knows that her dreams will leave her frightened and alone, and she walks barefoot down to the hospital wing. Thankfully, it’s empty, and as she closes the doors behind her, Madam Pomfrey comes hurrying out of her office, throwing robes on over her nightclothes.

“Potter,” she whispers soothingly, leading Darcy to a bed. “I should have known. In need of a good night’s sleep?”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey. Please.”

Madam Pomfrey bustles around for the familiar purple potion, pouring some into a vial and stopping it, putting it in Darcy’s hands. Darcy hesitates, holding the potion to her chest. “Anything else, Potter?”

Darcy looks up at the matron, licking her dry lips. “You wrote to Gemma after Harry was named a champion,” she whispers, tilting her head. “That was—kind of you.” She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly. “Thank you.”

There’s a heavy silence that hangs over them. Then, Madam Pomfrey sits down on the bed beside Darcy. She inhales deeply. “You’ve had a very eventful couple of years here at Hogwarts, haven’t you?”

Darcy can’t help but to chuckle. “I suppose you could call them that.”

“There are things that medicine, potions, and magic can’t fix,” Madam Pomfrey says softly. “But there are other ways to heal.” She gets to her feet again. “You know what, let me give you a few doses, just in case you find you need them… wait here, Potter, and I’ll get them for you…”

But Darcy doesn’t drink the potion when she gets back. She thinks of her friends as she closes her eyes—thinks of Gemma and Lupin surprising her with a visit; thinks of Harry and Hermione having dinner with her; Lupin falling asleep in bed, curled up at her side, his fingers twined loosely with her own. By that time, her eyes are heavy with sleep, and she slips into dreams quickly, dreams of the people she loves. And by morning, she doesn’t remember her dreams at all.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD someone come help me. it’s rained nonstop for a week. most streets are completely flooded. it’s supposed to continue raining all next week. i’m going stir crazy

Darcy forces herself to get out of bed each day in the following week, dressing herself in her nicest clothes and putting her robes on overtop, brushing her hair until it’s completely free of knots or tangles, putting on a smile that seems to annoy Snape more than she knows.

When she visits Lupin Tuesday night following his transformation, Gemma’s already been to check on him. He’s been bandaged up in a few places—there’s a small scratch on his forehead and one on his left cheek, and his wrist is wrapped in a bandage, as well—and refuses to tell her anything other than “I’m fine” when she asks how he is. When he falls back asleep, Darcy goes to leave, but not before seeing papers scattered across the coffee table describing the effects of Gemma’s experiment, and underneath the date of the transformation, written in a heavy hand— _pain_ , underlined three times. Darcy’s heart hurts so badly and she tears her eyes again, kissing his lips over and over until he wakes and laughs against her, his skin still abnormally warm.

Potions lessons have become something of a haven for Darcy. No one dares to mutter under their breaths about Darcy, well aware of Snape’s wrath—the students seem to decide that Darcy isn’t worth a detention, or several, so instead they keep their eyes trained on their cauldrons or parchment or books. And even better—Carla is her normal self again. She smiles at Darcy, makes her snicker when she steals by Carla’s cauldron. Though everything seems forced, from Carla’s smile to her laughter, and Darcy has a feeling she’s attempting to make amends after all that was said and done. Regardless, Darcy appreciates it.

However, Ron doesn’t seem to come around so easily. When Harry has dinner with Darcy on Wednesday, he admits in confidence that, while he likes Hermione very much and she’s been very supportive during these strange times, she isn’t Ron, and he feels something is missing without his best friend. Darcy sympathizes, understanding very much how it feels to be without your best friend. Darcy can only promise that Ron will realize the truth soon enough, to which Harry replies, “What? When I’m dead? Maybe that will finally make him see sense.”

“That’s not funny,” Darcy retorts sharply, giving him a single look to silence him.

Harry looks down at his plate, sighing. “Sorry, Darcy.”

Darcy thinks by the end of the week, Sirius should write back. After all, he’s come north again—not that Darcy is entirely sure exactly where or how far north he’s come—but she thinks he’s had plenty of time to write back to her. But Max does not return during breakfast, and Darcy makes Gemma stop by the Owlery with her before going down to Hogsmeade, just to be sure that Max isn’t sleeping in the rafters, having forgotten to deliver her a letter. Gemma obliges, complaining about the walk the entire way (“Hogsmeade is already far enough!”), but refrains from saying ‘I told you so’ when Max is nowhere to be seen.

The walk down to Hogsmeade is long that night, long and cold, and Gemma wraps her hands around Darcy’s arm, talking the whole way. And then, just before they reaching the last stretch into the village, Gemma asks, “Lupin seemed hesitant to tell me, and I’m under the impression he’s still keeping a few things from me.”

“Like what?”

“He said he felt different over the weekend,” Gemma continues. “But he couldn’t tell me how, or he didn’t want to. He _blushed_ when I asked him.”

Darcy blushes, as well. “Oh—I mean, he was—he was just tired and—it make him short, I think. He just snapped a lot and…”

Gemma raises her eyebrows, looking Darcy full in the face, noticing the pink tint to her cheeks. “And what? He was just short with you?” Gemma smiles knowingly. “I hope he didn’t say anything too cruel.”

“No, he didn’t—I mean, I understand—but it wasn’t just that,” Darcy explains, looking away from Gemma, unable to look her in the eyes. She sighs heavily, throwing her head back and groaning. “I couldn’t _walk_ Monday morning, Gemma. And I was too humiliated to ask Madam Pomfrey for something to soothe the ache.”

Gemma’s lips form a perfect ‘O’. Then, she lets out a bark of laughter to the darkening sky. “Gross,” she chuckles. “Why didn’t you just make a potion yourself?”

“Because I would have had to ask Snape for the ingredients, and you know he would have know what I was making and why I was making.”

“All right,” Gemma says. “So everything was intensified a hundred times. Now we know for next time to dial back on the ingredients.”

“Or how about you not shoot it directly into his bloodstream next time?” Darcy hisses.

“Yes, yes, yes, maybe that was a bad idea, but now we know,” Gemma answers with a shrug and a wicked smile. “The worst is over now, and plus you got a good fuck out of it. Or several.”

Darcy pushes Gemma off her arm, blushing harder, giving her friend a few quick smacks on the arm. Gemma only laughs at this, stumbling away from Darcy and rubbing her arm. “Are you done?” Darcy asks sharply. When Gemma doesn’t answer, Darcy slaps her arm again. “Are you _done_?”

“Yes! I’m done! I yield!” Gemma brushes herself off and falls back into step with Darcy.

Huffing impatiently, Darcy looks sideways at her friend. “Did Remus tell you how his transformation went?”

“Yes, he did, and he begged me not to tell you, you know,” Gemma replies.

“That’s not fair,” Darcy snaps. “You two can’t keep secrets from me.”

“It’s not like he told me in confidence, Darcy. He told me because I forced it out of him, and he was quite glad to throw it in my face how much worse I’ve made the experience for him.” Gemma grinds her jaw, looking ahead at the small village of Hogsmeade, the streets lit by the lights inside the shops and homes. “He didn’t want me to tell you because he didn’t want you to worry, but if I’m being honest—it’s daft of him to think I won’t tell you something like that, especially if he doesn’t want me to specifically tell you.”

“You wouldn’t have told me if I hadn’t asked,” Darcy mutters bitterly, her stomach knotting with feelings of guilt.

“I would have at least given him the chance to tell you himself,” Gemma says. “Just like I gave you the chance to tell me he was a werewolf first.”

Darcy doesn’t have an answer for that. Her stomach knots with feelings of guilt. “You have to forgive him for what he might have said,” she tells Gemma softly. “He doesn’t mean it. He’s not himself right now.”

“Just because he’s a little sensitive around this time doesn’t mean he automatically gets a free pass,” Gemma replies, her tone slightly harsh. “I held him accountable for his words and I put him in his place. He’s not my teacher anymore—he’s my patient.”

Unsure if she’s daring to ask too much, Darcy hesitates. But Gemma is her friend—her best friend—and she has always been honest with Darcy before. She kept things hidden, yes, but had always answered Darcy’s questions truthfully. “What did he say?”

Gemma laughs mirthlessly, sending shivers down Darcy’s spine. A horrible laughter, bitter and unlike Gemma’s usual easy laughter. “He claimed that someone like me would never pass up an opportunity to experiment on someone like him, that I was careless with him, catering to my own interests instead of his—of other werewolves.”

“He doesn’t mean it.” _Funny_ , Darcy thinks. _How many times have I heard those words recently, and how many times have those words still hurt me_? “What did you say to him?”

“I told him if that’s how he felt, he could choose to back out,” she continues casually, slowing her pace as they near the entrance to Hogsmeade. “And I also reminded him that I had kept his secret in school, have secured him enough money to last him months, and I have put my own money and a part of my soul into a project that I am proud of. He can think what he he wants of me, truly. Do you think others wouldn’t say the same? Do you think others, who know me as he does, would see me as who I am instead of the daughter of some Death Eaters?”

Darcy stops walking, a curious expression on her face. She’s reminded of Mrs. Duncan’s funeral, of the hurt in Gemma’s face and voice when speaking of her parents. Gemma continues walking a few paces, stopping upon realizing that Darcy isn’t beside her. She whirls, her dark hair moving with her. Darcy can’t help but to think that Gemma looks even more beautiful when she’s angry—her anger is subtle, but Darcy notices the gleam in her brown eyes, the way her eyebrows knit, clenching her jaw to keep from visibly frowning. Seeing Gemma angry is so foreign to Darcy that it seems scary—a terrible anger and a terrible beauty.

“You know he doesn’t think you like your parents,” Darcy says quietly. “You know that. He trusts you.”

“He trusts me because you do,” Gemma growls. She takes a moment to compose herself. “Can we just go? It’s cold.”

The three of them take dinner in the noisy dining area together. Gemma and Lupin make forced, polite conversation without really looking each other in the eyes. The entire affair is awkward and stiff, and Darcy is privately glad Gemma leaves quickly, leaving the two of them alone. When Darcy and Lupin finish their dinners, he suggests a walk before he leaves.

“You shouldn’t have said those things to Gemma,” is the first thing that leaves Darcy’s mouth as soon as they step foot outside the warm and stifling building. “You know she’s only trying to help.”

Lupin sighs heavily, wrapping an arm around Darcy and pulling her close, and that’s the end of it. He leaves shortly afterwards with a swift kiss on the cheek and the promise that she’ll have a home to go to this weekend. It’s a sad and sorry goodbye, but Darcy tries to remember that he’s likely in need of more sleep and she lets him go without another word. Maybe once he’s settled back into a routine and in his own home, things will be different, and he’ll be the same man he was just a few days ago.

Darcy walks back to Hogwarts alone, frowning the entire way. Lupin and Gemma had always gotten along quite well, had always been slightly comfortable with each other in ways Lupin wasn’t with Darcy’s other friends. While the idea makes her skin crawl and gives her jealous feelings she tries to push to the back of her mind, another part of Darcy enjoys being able to have dinner or spend time with both of them, a luxury she doesn’t get with Emily or Carla, both of whom have always been wary of Lupin and their relationship. Darcy scowls as she walks into the entrance hall, not wanting to think about it anymore.

When Max does not arrive the following morning at breakfast, Darcy steals away to the Owlery at the end of lunch, moving quickly up to the tall tower and trying to give herself time to make it back down for the Potions lesson afterward. At least, for the last class of the week, Darcy will be able to see Harry and Hermione—she’d even be glad to see Ron, but given the current situation, Darcy’s been doing good by her brother and not speaking to him unless she needs to.

Max isn’t in the Owlery, and Darcy lets out a frustrated scream that seems to echo throughout the grounds. She curses Sirius for a few moments until her anger subsides, and then she sprints down to Snape’s classroom, knowing she’ll likely be late. However, when she does arrive at the dungeon classroom, it’s an odd sight—

The students, Gryffindor and Slytherin, are still congregated outside the door, talking in low whispers. Draco Malfoy watches her approach hungrily, puffing out his chest to show off the gleaming badge on his robes: Support CEDRIC DIGGORY. Darcy shakes her head, not bothered by it, but out of the corner of her eye the badge seems to transform, change completely, until it’s a sickly green color and the words now say: POTTER STINKS.

But she doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Someone nudges her and Darcy looks down to find Hermione crying into her hands. Darcy takes her by the shoulders; Snape is watching carefully from the doorway of the classroom, his eyes fixed upon her, and Darcy scans the rest of the students. One of Malfoy’s friends’ head is misshapen and colored like wild fungus, and he stumbles backwards, running towards the hospital wing.

All eyes fall on Darcy and Hermione. Darcy takes Hermione’s wrists gently, trying to pry them from her face. “Let me see, Hermione,” she whispers, but Hermione won’t move her hands. “I can’t help you if I can’t— _oh_ —” The Slytherins all laugh when Hermione lowers her trembling hands. Hermione's front teeth seem to grow at a pace much too fast, well past her chin already. Darcy takes her wand out and points it at her teeth before hesitating, and putting it back in her pocket. “Maybe we should get you down to the hospital wing…”

Snape is still watching Darcy, almost amused. “Everyone inside, _now_ ,” he hisses, and the students shuffle past him, muttering angrily. Snape slams the door shut behind him, not before receiving a withering glare from Darcy.

As Darcy walks Hermione to the hospital wing, it’s quiet, and then Hermione asks one thing, nearly incoherent given the length of her front teeth, which continue to grow, well past her chest—“Is Gemma here?”

Darcy almost laughs. “No, not today.”

“Oh,” Hermione cries, trying to hide her teeth with her hands again. “Don’t tell her I asked.”

Madam Pomfrey fixes Hermione’s teeth easily as Darcy watches on. She narrows her eyes when Hermione tells Madam Pomfrey to stop shrinking her teeth, and Darcy can tell they’re different, but she isn’t about to chastise Hermione for it. Hermione catches Darcy’s eye and blushes fiercely before explaining what happened.

“Malfoy called me a Mudblood, trying to give me one of those stupid badges and I told Harry not to do it, but he did and so did Malfoy and their spells ricocheted and one hit Goyle—” She points to the lumpy figure in a bed across from them, and Madam Pomfrey hurries over to his side. “And one of them hit me, and _please_ , Darcy, you’ll let me know today’s lesson, won’t you? You won’t make me go back, will you?”

Darcy hesitates, finally smiling and nodding weakly. “No, I won’t make you.”

The two of them stay in the hospital wing talking quietly, and Darcy’s glad for the distraction. Hermione tells Darcy to ignore the badges, which she didn’t need to say. The badges are the least of Darcy’s concerns, and when she leaves about halfway through the double Potions lesson, heading back for the dungeons, someone calls her name and Darcy is overcome with a feeling of dread, despite turning to find herself face to face with a flushed Ludo Bagman, looking quite handsome today.

Ludo has combed his blond hair over and over, it seems, parting it off to the side and making sure no stray hairs fall in his face. He’s dressed in very clean black robes, seemingly wrinkle-free, and he grabs Darcy by the arms, looking her over critically.

“Mr. Bagman,” Darcy says, clearing her throat and suddenly feeling very self-conscious, watching his eyes rove over her hair and face and pulling back the lapels of her robes to inspect the outfit beneath. Ludo doesn’t seem to hear her. “Mr. Bagman, please!”

“Suppose it doesn’t really matter what you’re wearing, does it? Not when you’re Darcy Potter! You are, truly, a pretty girl—no one will fuss about your outfit—I’m only being critical, I’m sorry, my dear, I’m sorry…” Ludo says more to himself than to Darcy. “The champions are all getting their wands weighed now, and they’ll be wanting pictures for the _Daily Prophet_ , and I know you won’t like this, but—”

“But _what_ , Mr. Bagman?” Darcy asks slowly, letting Ludo adjust the front of her robes again, brushing off some dirt and dust from her shoulders. “What won’t I like?”

Ludo looks at Darcy apologetically, lowering his hands to his sides. “Rita Skeeter would like to interview you, my dear,” Ludo offers quietly, and Darcy shakes her head.

“No,” she says simply. “No—I’m not a champion and I’m not a judge and I do not have to be there—”

Darcy starts walking again, but Ludo blocks her way, grabbing her arms again and digging his fingertips into her flesh. “It will be worse for you if you don’t go,” Ludo promises, guiding her gently towards the marble staircase, away from the corridor leading to Snape’s classroom. “Just have a picture taken with your brother, answer a few questions, and we’ll send you off to dinner. Don’t worry, Darcy—I’ll be there the whole time, and didn’t I take care of you before?”

She gives him an incredulous look. Darcy thinks this a bit of an overstatement, for Ludo Bagman hadn’t really done much to help her escape Rita Skeeter’s clutches when they’d last come face to face at the Ministry of Magic. “No,” Darcy replies hesitantly. “Maybe I should—Professor Snape is waiting for me, I’m sure.”

Ludo sighs. “Rita Skeeter will write about you regardless if you come with me or not,” he insists. “You can either let her write all lies, or answer a few questions and give her some truth to work with. Dumbledore is there, you know. Do you really think Dumbledore would allow her to harass you?”

“Dumbledore’s there?” Darcy asks quickly. “Why didn’t you just say that?” She thinks of Harry, cornered by that horrible woman, unsure of what to expect. “All right, I’ll go.”

When they enter the abandoned classroom (one of which Darcy had thrown up in during her sixth year), the _Daily Prophet_ photographer is finishing up individual photographs. At their entrance, Harry immediately sidles up to her left side, Ludo still on her right, a reassuring hand pressed against her back, nearly forcing her forward.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, his voice low. “How’s Hermione?”

“Better than us,” Darcy replies with a forced smile. “She’s all better already.”

Dumbledore nods in acknowledgment, looking slightly serious, and yet amused. Cedric Diggory gives her a small smile; both Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour glance at her and turn away, unaffected. Madame Maxime scrunches her nose and turns away at the sight of Darcy; Barty Crouch doesn’t spare her a glance, looking bored and dour, as usual; but Karkaroff takes a few long strides and crosses the room, approaching Darcy with a smile that Darcy doesn’t imagine is very genuine.

“Potter,” he begins, his voice gruff. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty the last time we spoke… the confusion made us all a little fretful…”

Darcy doesn’t return his smile and nods very slightly, looking to Ludo Bagman, one of her hands on Harry’s shoulder. “I’ve changed my mind,” she whispers. “May I please go?”

“It’ll be fine, Darcy,” Ludo murmurs in her ear. “Just give her a big smile.”

“Stop keeping her all to yourself, Ludo…” Rita Skeeter grins, approaching quickly. “Come here, Potter—and you, Potter—”

Rita grabs their shoulders, clamping onto her and digging her painted nails into Darcy’s skin. She pulls Darcy and Harry forward as the photographer finishes with Viktor Krum’s individual portrait, and then he turns on the two siblings standing awkwardly with Rita between them.

“She iz not a champion!” Madame Maxime interrupts, and for once, Darcy is grateful to hear her booming voice. “She should not be rewarded for her trickery, Dumbly-Dorr!”

“I thought we had agreed that Darcy did not put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire?” Dumbledore says, giving Darcy a slight nod of encouragement.

Madame Maxime mutters under her breath, and Rita raises her thin eyebrows to her hairline. “ _Did_ you, Darcy?” Rita hisses as she moves out of the picture. The camera flashes and the light startles Darcy.

“No, I didn’t,” Darcy answers. She wraps an arm around Harry protectively as the photographer takes another picture. “May I go now?”

“Just a few quick questions—”

“I thought—after our long and tiring argument—we agreed on a photograph,” Dumbledore interjects firmly. “Nothing more.”

Rita purses her lips, turning her back on Dumbledore. “I just _know_ there’s a story here,” she smiles, revealing her white teeth, with lipstick smeared on her front tooth. “Maybe not a _Prophet_ story, but _Witch Weekly_ would _love_ to get their hands on an interview with Darcy Potter—you might even make the front page.”

Darcy laughs nervously, looking sideways at Harry. “I’m not that interesting…”

“I beg to differ!” Rita shrieks with delight, reaching in her purse for a quill. It’s acid green, and when she sucks the end, giving Darcy a curious stare. “A tragic hero, aren’t you? Dutifully protecting your brother, just like your parents would have wanted? And, of course, your budding romance that the world would be so interested in reading about—”

Darcy blushes, looking away. She can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on her, and she’s never felt such affection for Dumbledore until that moment. “Ludo—if you would escort Darcy back to Professor Snape’s classroom,” he says, calm as can be, but with a tone that suggests Rita Skeeter will get no more from Darcy. “I’m sure Darcy can show you the way, and I’m sure Professor Snape is missing his right hand.”

Rita watches as Darcy gives Harry an apologetic look and snatches at Ludo’s arm, allowing him to lead her quickly from the room. They slow down as they make their way down the stairs, an awkward and heavy silence pressing on them.

“I’m sorry, Darcy,” Ludo sighs. “But like I said, if you hadn’t shown up, she would have said something very nasty about you in some article.”

“She would have done it regardless,” Darcy frowns. “I hate her. No matter what I would have said, she would have twisted my words. I’ve read what she’s written, and it’s cruel.”

“By not giving her what she wants, you’re going to make it worse for yourself.”

Darcy stops, releasing his arm. “But you’re the one who told me that it doesn’t matter what she writes—only I know the truth. You said so, Mr. Bagman.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I’m not going to give Rita Skeeter what she wants just so she can publish a nonsensical article regardless.”

Ludo grinds his jaw, choosing his words carefully. “And when the story breaks tomorrow, and it’s revealed—in Rita Skeeter’s words, not yours—that you are in a relationship with an outed werewolf and your former teacher—and _yes_ , I have seen the two of you skulking around Hogsmeade enough to know the truth—what will happen then?”

Darcy stammers for a moment. “I’m not ashamed.”

“No, no—I know you’re not,” Ludo replies, exasperated, putting a hand on the small of her back and giving her another gentle push to keep her moving. “But you had the chance to break the news on your own terms, in your own words—now, you’ve given Rita Skeeter the power to do it on her terms.”

“And what would you have had me do?” Darcy asks sharply, stopping again in the corridor. “You would have had me do a sit down interview with her? Tell all my secrets to Rita Skeeter for her to use against me?”

Ludo inhales deeply, looking her over. He chews his bottom lip, and Darcy suddenly doesn’t think him handsome at all. “You aren’t in school anymore,” Ludo says. “What you say and what you do matters now, and if you continue to stand off to the side, to hide behind great wizards such as Albus Dumbledore—you have _power_ now, Darcy, the power to bolster your reputation or destroy it. You cannot continue to hide behind the walls of Hogwarts.”

Darcy looks at him for a long time before taking a step back towards the dungeons. Almost as if seeing him for the first time, Darcy notices the lines on his face, the slightly crooked nose, the constant movement of his jaw. “Excuse me, Mr. Bagman,” she says slowly. “But I know the way from here.”

She leaves him standing there watching after her, and as she rounds a corner, putting her out of sight of Ludo Bagman, Darcy runs the rest of the way to Snape’s classroom. There are only a few minutes left of class, and Snape scowls at her when she comes in. The students are stoppering their potions, bringing them to the front of the class. Ron hands his directly to Darcy’s and she thanks him, twisting the vial in her hands as she watches him walk out alone.

“Couldn’t miss an opportunity to have your photograph taken, could you?” Snape snaps when the classroom has emptied.

“Shut up,” Darcy shoots back. “Did you give Malfoy a detention for what he did to Hermione?”

Snape’s silence is answer enough.

This is Darcy’s breaking point—Snape’s failure to hold his student accountable, his failure to pursue some form of justice for Hermione. It all comes pouring out of her, as it always does when she’s around Snape. Her pulse pounds in her ears, and she clenches her fists. “I hate you,” she whispers, tears in her ears.

Snape doesn’t falter. “I have not forgotten,” he growls. “And I do not need reminded.”

Darcy doesn’t bother staying at Hogwarts for dinner. When she leaves Snape’s classroom, she makes her way to her room, throwing some clothes into her bag along with her camera and a bottle of wine. With most students and teachers in the Great Hall eating, it’s easy to sneak out the front doors. Darcy regrets not being able to speak with Harry before she leaves, but she can’t imagine he’ll be too upset.

She Disapparates just outside Hogwarts, and clearly her mind is elsewhere. Upon balancing herself in the field outside Lupin’s cottage, there’s a sharp pain in her right index finger—Darcy looks down and sees half her fingernail missing, and the tip of her finger throbs. _It could have been my entire finger_ , she thinks. _Or my hand. Or arm. It could have been worse_.

When she knocks on the door, it takes Lupin a moment to answer. There’s some shuffling inside the house and Lupin finally throws open the door, looking windswept and flushed. He slips outside, shutting the door behind him, chest to chest with Darcy.

“What are you doing?” she groans. “Can’t we go inside? I’ve had a long day and I brought some wine that I’d really love to open.”

“Listen, my love—” Lupin kisses her hard, pulling away all too soon. He takes Darcy’s hands in his, smiling at her. “I’m sorry—I didn’t expect you until much later, after dinner at least. I have a visitor.”

Darcy lowers her hands, opening and closing her mouth stupidly. “Oh,” she finally says, her stomach churning. “I see—I can—come back tomorrow or—” She looks into his face, feeling her face turn bright red. “Is it Gemma?”

Lupin goes to answer, furrows his brow, and then laughs out loud. “ _Gemma_ ,” he repeats, his laughter trailing off. “If you’re so worried about it, maybe you should take a look for yourself? To ease your fears?”

Blushing, feeling childish and mocked, Darcy takes a step back. “No, I’d rather not—”

“Come here, Darcy,” Lupin chuckles, taking her hand and opening the front door again. “Here, let me take your bag.” He takes it from her other hand and leads her inside. Darcy follows, feeling very small in his wake. He lowers Darcy’s bag to the corner of the small kitchen area and stands back up, crossing his arms over his chest. “I bet you feel foolish now, don’t you?”

Darcy follows his line of vision, to the armchair by the television. Someone’s seated in it, and for a moment—a very, very brief moment—Darcy almost _does_ think it to be Gemma, just by the dark hair of the visitor. But then he rises, and Darcy has to admit that she does feel quite the fool.

“You’re not Gemma,” Darcy whispers, completely breathless, unable to think.

“No,” Sirius answers, raising an eyebrow and looking to Lupin for an explanation. “I’m not.”

Her legs fail her momentarily, and it’s Sirius who crosses the room, arms open wide. When he wraps them around Darcy, there is no one else in the world but them. Sirius hugs her for a long time, laughing as she speaks incoherently, unable to form a complete sentence or think a complete thought.

She nuzzles into his chest, crying against him—crying because she doesn’t know how else to express how happy she is to see him.


	29. Chapter 29

“You’ve cut your hair,” Darcy croaks, still breathless with excitements, tears still leaking from the corners of her eyes. Sirius’s dark and wavy hair reaches just above his shoulders, slightly shorter than Gemma’s, no longer the elbow length tangle it had been back in June. She reaches up to touch the dark, trimmed scruff around his mouth, touching it as if she’s never seen facial hair before. “And your beard—”

“You didn’t think I’d keep my hair that long forever, did you?” Sirius asks, a smile on his face. His smile doesn’t seem as rotten anymore—his hygiene has definitely improved—and he looks much more like the handsome man in Darcy’s photo album. Some life seems to have been restored to him—his eyes are brighter, his smile more natural and cool, no longer just a skeleton with wax skin stretched tight over the bones. While he is still weary looking, slightly gaunt, and too thin for Darcy’s liking, Sirius looks _happy_ , something he hadn’t been when she’d last seen him. How could she ever have thought him frightening? How could she ever have thought him ugly? “Let me look at you—properly.”

Darcy nods and Sirius holds her face in his hands, brushing her tears away with his thumbs, much like he had in the Shrieking Shack what seems like a lifetime ago. His palms are rough, calloused and leathery, almost like a dog’s paws, but his touch is comforting in ways that Darcy can’t describe—comforting in a way she’s never known, or can’t remember. _This is what a father’s touch feels like_ , she tells herself, closing her eyes and nuzzling into one of Sirius’s palms. _This is how my father would have touched me—gentle, loving, as if I were made of glass._

“Darcy—just like your mother… so, so beautiful—yet I see James in you, too,” Sirius whispers in disbelief. It’s odd hearing her name spoken with Sirius’s gruff voice, but it brings her such joy that she wishes he would say it again. Speaking to no one in particular, Sirius rasps, “Isn’t she the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen?”

Lupin doesn’t answer, but Darcy opens her eyes to glance at him. He gives her a small, knowing smile, leaning back against the kitchen counter, his arms still crossed over his chest. She blushes, turning her gaze back on Sirius.

Sirius touches her auburn hair, brushes another tear from her face, takes a step back and looks her up and down. “You’re all grown up,” he says again, shaking his head. “I regret not being there to watch you grow up.” Sirius stands up straight. “You’re so tall—when did you get so tall?”

Sirius, of a height with Darcy, looks almost absurd. Dressed in clean clothes that Darcy knows are Lupin’s, the sleeves of his shirt are too long for his arms and the belt around his waist is pulled as tight as it can go. Maybe, had he not spent over a decade in Azkaban, Sirius would have filled out—in the photograph she has of him during her parents’ wedding day, his shoulders had seemed broader underneath the dress robes he’d been wearing, and his neck had seemed slightly thicker. _This is how it should have been_ , she tells herself. _This is how we were supposed to meet again_.

He takes her hands in his, leading her to the sofa and sitting down beside her. “I don’t understand,” she says, unable to stop looking at Sirius. She can’t believe he’s here—that this is real—and Darcy squeezes his hands to make sure she’s not imagining this. “How are you—when did you—why didn’t you answer my letter?”

“I’m sorry, Darcy,” Sirius sighs, a grin still plastered to his face. She doesn’t need an explanation, but he continues regardless—to hear him apologize is enough for her. “I took a chance with your owl after I’d received your letter about coming here. Thankfully, he was able to find this place. That’s why he hasn’t returned to you—Remus and I have been using him.”

“Where’ve you left him?” Darcy asks desperately, looking around for some sign of Max. “Is he here?”

There’s a loud _POP_! that makes both Darcy and Sirius jump. They look at Lupin, looking apologetic, holding the now open bottle of wine that Darcy had brought. “He’s out hunting, I’m sure,” Lupin finally says, standing up straight and pouring wine into three glasses. “He’ll be back by morning, and I’m sure he’ll be just as glad to see you.”

“I hope he hasn’t been pecking at your fingers,” Darcy frowns at him, fighting the urge to laugh.

Lupin holds his right hand up, extending his fingers and wiggling them with a slight smile. Thankfully, there are no cuts that she can see. “I’ve found that, if I let him eat some of whatever I’m eating, he’ll keep away from my fingers.” Darcy does laugh at that, wanting to kiss him all over, to thank him for all he’s done—to make him understand what this means to her. He approaches the two of them on the sofa, handing them full glasses. “Are you hungry, Darcy?”

“Yes,” she replies eagerly, her stomach giving a roar of approval. She takes a deep drink of the wine. Darcy watches Lupin cross to the kitchen, picking his wand up off the counter. “You cheater—have I taught you nothing?”

“If you want to eat something _edible_ , then I’ll be using magic,” Lupin teases.

Darcy looks back at Sirius. He’s still smiling at her, looking at her as if he’s never seen her before in his life. “I’ll make dinner,” she announces, getting to her feet and swirling the wine in her glass.

Darcy’s hands are still trembling with excitement, and it makes it difficult to chop vegetables and prepare the meal. Once, the knife slips and she cuts herself; the blood gushes from her finger and Lupin has her hold it under cool water before wrapping it for her, laughing when he notices the fierce blush that’s colored her cheeks. “Had you let me use magic,” Lupin murmurs, admiring his work, holding her index finger gingerly with his own fingers, “that wouldn’t have happened.”

Lupin helps Darcy after that, constantly examining the instructions in the cookbook they’d bought over the summer, critical of the directions and measurements and suggesting they add much more of everything to it. Darcy lets him do as he pleases, only stopping him once when she thinks he’s put more than enough salt into the sauce bubbling on the stove. They insist that Sirius sit and relax, but he hovers over them, in the way mostly, stirring the sauce and watching Darcy work with a kind of fascination. He and Lupin talk most of the time, reliving the memories of their boyhood, laughing and telling Darcy stories about her parents that make her stomach stir in a good way—their stories remind Darcy that her parents were living, breathing people—people who loved their daughter and, in later life, loved their son. Darcy listens with a smile on her face, trying to imagine her mother at Harry’s age, or her father—dark hair ruffled and all.

All the while, Darcy feels as if she can feel Sirius’s eyes burning a hole through her skin. She knows what he’s watching for, and knows that his eyes have been flirting nervously between she and Lupin. Darcy feels Sirius’s eyes whenever some small form of intimacy occurs—when Lupin reaches across her in the cramped corner that is the kitchen, he places a hand on the small of her back to alert Darcy to his presence; when Darcy places her hand atop his to show him how to hold his fingers when chopping something; when Lupin casually and instinctively puts her hair in a ponytail as she’s bending over the large pot, stirring the thickening sauce, his fingers working quickly with her hair. She has to admit that Lupin is much bolder than her to make such a gesture in front of her godfather and his old friend, but Sirius says nothing, despite watching their interactions very, very closely.

But it excites her more than she can say, excites her in a way that she’s never known—to be cooking dinner at Lupin’s side, for a family she thought she’d never have again. The knowledge that this is, in all actuality, real makes Darcy temporarily forget about everything—about Rita Skeeter and Ludo Bagman, the Triwizard Tournament, Emily—everything. Darcy wishes every night could be like this, a busy and warm kitchen, the smell of delicious and savory food wafting throughout the house, a glass of wine in hand. Surely Aunt Petunia would faint if she could see Darcy now—if she had any idea that she spent her weekends fucking one of James and Lily Potter’s oldest and best friends and a werewolf, and now serving dinner to her godfather, Sirius Black, a dangerous, wanted criminal.

The idea of Aunt Petunia’s reaction has always given Darcy a queer form of pleasure—to defy Petunia’s wishes to this degree makes Darcy feel proud. Petunia, who had always wanted Darcy to be a perfect little lady, who wanted Darcy to grow up like her, who wanted Darcy to marry her friend’s son and live out the rest of her years as a housewife, raising children like Dudley while her husband spends his days at some office.

_Spare me_ , she thinks, watching Lupin carefully. She can’t help but to smile, to admire the way his hair falls in his eyes, the small smile he gives her when he notices her watching. _Spare me a normal, perfect life—I want this one_. It strikes Darcy then that she can’t remember ever being so content with this life, this hand that she and was dealt, that had begun with pain and suffering and loss, and which has continued throughout.

Sirius seats himself at one of the stools on the other side of the tiny island, leaning forward and draining the rest of his glass. Darcy smiles at him, refilling it and topping off Lupin’s and her own. “Moony,” Sirius begins, and Lupin hums distractedly in response, giving Darcy a handful of roughly chopped carrots. She thanks him with a smile and tosses them into the pot. Sirius waits for Lupin to finish what he’s doing—he puts a hand on Darcy’s hip, moving her out of the way, placing a sheet pan with a raw roast on it in the oven. “Thank you, for opening your home to my goddaughter. For watching over Darcy and Harry while I wasn’t able to.”

Lupin and Darcy exchange a quick look, and for a moment, Darcy is afraid that Sirius is mocking her—teasing that he knows what’s going on and is about to put an end to it. But Sirius only smiles at them both, holding up his wine glass in a toast. Lupin’s cheeks turn slightly pink and he clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

“To you,” Darcy whispers, lifting her glass slowly to toast Lupin. “Remus Lupin.”

Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, Darcy inhales deeply, wrapping an arm around his middle and leaning into him. At her touch, Lupin deflates, his shoulders relaxing and his face softening. “It’s been my pleasure,” he mutters, his eyes meeting Darcy’s as she rests her head against his arm. “You and your brother are wonderful, and you—you’ve brought me such joy, and you’ve been such a wonderful friend to me, Darcy. In fact, you’ve probably done more for me this past year or so than I could ever do for you.”

_I love you. I love you. I love you_. “I don’t think that’s very true,” Darcy jokes, raising her eyebrows at Sirius again. She drinks the rest of her wine. “Please tell me you’ve prepared for my visit with some hard liquor? I’m getting tired of wine.”

Lupin laughs, looking at Sirius as Darcy walks away, towards the liquor cabinet. “Your goddaughter, in truth,” Lupin teases. “You wouldn’t believe how much she can drink.”

Darcy smiles proudly, removing a bottle of scotch from the back of the cabinet. Half-empty, Darcy brandishes the bottle. “Have you been holding out on me?” she asks, already fetching clean glasses. “You’ve been saving the good stuff for yourself?”

“Have you ever had scotch before?” Lupin says, allowing Darcy to pour the three of them small glasses. He looks at her, and Darcy feels butterflies in her stomach at the sight of him smiling. “I’ll be very impressed if Gemma was able to sneak a good bottle of scotch into Hogwarts.”

“I mean—it’s like whiskey, isn’t it?” Darcy sniffs the liquid, shuddering, looking to Sirius for an answer. Sirius only laughs hoarsely, clearly a sound he is not used to producing. “Whatever. Everyone knows the cheap stuff is what gets you the drunkest.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this with my own ears,” Sirius interrupts, tracing the lip of his glass with his finger. There’s a boyish grin stuck to his face, making him look years younger—just like the boy in the photograph. “My goddaughter? James and Lily’s daughter—a _drunk_.”

“I’m not a drunk!” Darcy retorts, giving Sirius’s arm a playful smack across the counter. “A casual drinker.”

“Not even two weeks into the school year, I caught her walking back to Gryffindor Tower—drunk as can be. I could smell you down the corridor, you know,” Lupin recalls, and Sirius laughs again, a barking laughter.

Darcy appeals to Sirius, pursing her lips and looking very serious. “He gave me a detention,” she tells her godfather, cocking an eyebrow. “And, in my defense, it was my birthday.”

“ _Moony_! You gave Darcy a detention for being drunk?” Sirius repeats incredulously. “How many times did we wander those corridors stinking of beer?

“It was only the one,” Lupin says, waving an impatient hand, but smiling all the same. “Afterwards, it was a slap on the wrist.”

She wonders briefly if Lupin dares tell Sirius he had been the enabler—he had invited Darcy into his apartments and given her alcohol. Darcy blushes, remembering the one night they’d drank a little too much, murmured some drunken words, shed only half of their clothes, and fucked clumsily on the sofa. Now that she thinks of it, she’s also quite glad Lupin doesn’t tell Sirius he’d caught her fucking Oliver Wood in a broom closet. She catches Lupin’s eye and his face is slightly red, as well. They smile shyly at each other before turning back to Sirius.

Dinner is an exciting affair taken around the fire and Darcy talks throughout most of it. With her legs draped over Sirius’s lap and Lupin in the armchair, glancing sideways at Darcy every so often, they all eat quickly and both Sirius and Lupin laugh when Darcy sips her scotch and coughs for a solid minute, her eyes watering. After both Sirius and Lupin finish complimenting the meal, leaving Darcy burning red in the face, Sirius asks about the Triwizard Tournament and she is more than happy to oblige him. She tells him exactly what happened, recounting it with as many details as she can remember. She tells Sirius about Karkaroff and how Snape had warned her about him, about Ludo Bagman and Rita Skeeter and the _Daily Prophet_ photographer that she had encountered only a few hours earlier. Hoping there is some way to silently communicate to Lupin that the entire world might find out about them being together within the next day or so, Darcy tries her hardest to give him a look that says all of that. She’s sure he doesn’t understand, but Lupin nods as if he knows there is more to the story.

“And you truly didn’t put Harry’s name in?” Sirius finally asks after a long time.

Darcy gives him a cold look.

“You really are your mother’s daughter, aren’t you?” Sirius jests. “I’ve sent a letter to Harry. Should be there any day now. Don’t worry—it’s handled.”

“Handled?”

“Don’t you worry.”

“You clearly don’t know Darcy.” Lupin winks at her while Sirius isn’t looking.

“You telling me not to worry is only making me worry more,” Darcy mutters, stuffing a piece of meat into her mouth.

Lupin cleans up after them and retires to bed early, leaving Darcy and Sirius alone to talk. Darcy flips through the few channels on the television, lounging on the sofa with the fire warming her, making her drowsy. Finally, she settles on a game show, turning the volume low.

“Where is Buckbeak?” Darcy asks suddenly.

“My secret hiding place,” Sirius smiles. His eyelids seem heavy, as well, his cheeks full of color with some alcohol and a full stomach. “He’s been a wonderful traveling companion, truthfully. Despite him being a hippogriff. How is Snape being to you?”

“Surprisingly kind by Snape’s usual standard.” She chuckles. “I make sure to put him in his place when he forgets himself.”

“That’s my girl.”

Darcy smiles back weakly, sighing heavily. “I wish Harry was here,” she whispers. “I wish every night could be like this.”

“One day,” Sirius promises, “it will be.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t clear your name,” Darcy says. “I wish there was more we could have done.”

“More?” Sirius scoffs, not unkindly. “Darcy, you saved my life—my soul. You and Harry and Hermione. I do not forget. You did more for me than I ever expected you to.”

Darcy smiles, looking away into the fire. “Can I get you another drink?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. Adrenaline surges through her—just sitting next to Sirius makes her feel overwhelmed. She doesn’t quite know how to act, how to feel. Besides their brief meeting in June, the last time they’d seen each other, Darcy had only been a little girl. But she’s not a little girl anymore. Darcy puts the strong scotch back in the cabinet, reaching for something a bit milder. She suddenly wishes she had a cigarette, something to siphon her anxiety into.

“You’re comfortable here,” Sirius notes, looking around the modest room. The light from the television and fire brighten his face. “This is home to you.”

Darcy watches him for a moment before pouring their glasses with the last of a bottle of whisky. “Nowhere is really home without Harry.” She thinks for a minute, bringing the glasses back over to the sofa. “Hogwarts is my home.” Darcy remembers better days at Hogwarts spent in the company of her three best friends—Carla, still at Hogwarts, on shaky terms with Darcy currently; Gemma, who frequents only to poke and prod Lupin and sometimes join them for dinner; and Emily, a mystery to Darcy now, a person she doesn’t even know. “It gets lonely sometimes, but at least Harry’s there.”

“Had you come with me like you wanted, you wouldn’t think Hogwarts so lonely,” Sirius replies, and Darcy thinks he sounds slighter bitter. “Hogwarts is a good place for you to be. You’re safe there, and I don’t have to worry as much knowing Dumbledore’s there.”

Darcy doesn’t want to start an argument, so she ignores his comments completely. “Professor Dumbledore said he brought Remus back for me,” she admits, taking a sip of her drink. Darcy isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or not, but she feels bad for the harsh words she’d thrown in Dumbledore’s face on Halloween. “A kindness I did not deserve.”

They sit through a long, awkward silence. Darcy finds herself glancing towards the bedroom door, wishing Lupin would come back out to alleviate the tension. Sirius had laughed easier around his old friend, smiled more, joked more.

_Remus_. Darcy knows she has to tell Sirius. Who knows the next time they’ll meet again, and if she doesn’t tell him now, he’ll likely found out through the _Prophet_. It could be months until they see each other again—on one hand, she wants to at least part on good terms, to be able to remember this night fondly. On the other hand, he may have months to brood on the fact that his own goddaughter hadn’t admitted to a relationship with his friend, and Darcy imagines Sirius would take that as a massive betrayal of trust. She would.

She wonders if Lupin is listening to their conversation, laying awake, or if he’s truly asleep on the other side of the door. “Sirius, you wouldn’t ever hurt me, would you?”

Sirius furrows his brow, shaking his head. “No,” he breathes, as if it’s the most ridiculous question in the world. “I would never hurt you.”

Her breath hitches for a moment and her heart begins to race. She wipes her palms on her pants and clears her throat loudly. “I have to tell you something.”

“All right,” Sirius says. “Go ahead. You can tell me anything.”

Darcy hesitates, looking into his eyes. They’ve softened since June, and Darcy’s glad. She imagines she would have a harder time telling him the truth if his eyes were still mad, still cold, still crazed. “I want to tell you before it’s in the _Daily Prophet_. Ludo Bagman thinks it will be.”

“What is it?”

Darcy’s chest rises and falls heavily with each breath and she’s blushing again—why do I always have to blush? “Sirius,” she starts again, unsure of how to proceed. She tucks her feet underneath her, running a hand through her hair. “Remus and I—we’re—” _What are we_? “We’re—he’s my—we’re sort of—seeing each other, I suppose.”

Sirius blinks, quiet for a few moments. “I’m sorry,” he says. “What?”

Darcy continues to smile awkwardly.

“When?” Sirius snarls, jumping to his feet and startling Darcy. His face has darkened and there’s an angry glint in his eyes. “Since when? June?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Darcy isn’t sure how she expected Sirius to react, but she hadn’t expected him to be so angry. “I—” she pauses again, unsure if she should tell him the truth or not. “Since the summer. After I left Hogwarts.”

“Has he touched you, Darcy?” he demands of her. Sirius glares down at her as she struggles for an answer, opening and closing her mouth like a fish desperate for water. “ _Has he touched you_?”

They look at each other for a long time, and Darcy frowns. “Yes.”

Sirius’s nostrils flare and he reaches into his waistband, pulling out a wand that Darcy knows is Peter Pettigrew’s. She’s distracted for a moment, hating how Sirius is the new owner of that wand—hating the injustice of it all. And then Sirius moves quickly towards the bedroom door, bringing Darcy out of her reverie and forcing her to her feet. She grabs Sirius’s hand, tears welling in her eyes again. “I knew it,” Sirius growls. “I knew something _funny_ was going on, but I trusted you, and I trusted Remus—”

“Please don’t hurt him,” Darcy cries, pulling him away from the door. “Please don’t—it’s not what you think, Sirius, please—”

“Then what is it? What is it really?”

Unable to keep herself from sobbing, Darcy hopes it appeals to Sirius’s more paternal side—if he has one. “He has been kind to me—he’s been good to me—he loves me—he has never touched me without my consent—” She tugs his hand again, making him stumble. “We take care of each other, Sirius—please don’t hurt him—”

“I won’t hurt him.” Sirius tears his hand away from her and opens the door so forcefully that it bounces off the wall and nearly closes again. Darcy stands in the sitting room, covering her face as a flash of light briefly illuminates the bedroom and Lupin lets out a strangled yell. She runs into the room as Lupin falls from the air above his bed, crumpling on the mattress and groaning.

“Stop it!” Darcy shrieks, running to Lupin’s side and clutching at his arm. “Leave him alone!”

“You’re sleeping with my goddaughter?” Sirius shouts, pacing back and forth. “After all that James and Lily did for you—after everything that happened—and you’re _sleeping_ with their daughter?”

Lupin rubs his head, flattening his hair and slowing his breathing. He slips off the bed, still catching his breath. “I suppose I deserved that, didn’t I?” he grumbles.

“Go, Darcy,” Sirius says in a low voice. “Go. Remus and I need to talk.”

“Are you all right?” Darcy asks Lupin quietly, brushing off his shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Lupin says, flashing her a smile that makes her weak in the knees.

“Go wait for me in the living room, Darcy,” Sirius snaps. “We’ll talk after.”

Darcy almost obeys— _almost_. At the last minute, she turns to look at Sirius, full of rage. “I’m a part of this too,” she says quickly, feeling much a child in the middle of their argument, if that’s what it is. “Whatever you have to say to Remus, you can say to me, as well. And vice versa.” Giving Lupin a sideways look, she adds hastily, “Right?”

The corners of Lupin’s lips twitch, but he forces himself not to smile—not now. “Right.”

Sirius considers Darcy, but finally agrees. “How did this start? What could have possibly possessed either of you to think this is okay?”

“Er—”

Both Darcy and Lupin look at each other for answers. Lupin speaks first. “Darcy was a good friend to me while we were at Hogwarts,” he sighs. “A better friend to me than I deserved. Come on, Padfoot, you don’t want to hear about this, do you?”

Darcy raises her eyebrows, impressed. The use of Sirius’s childhood nickname seems to calm him enough to put his wand away. “Tell me,” he says anyway. “Tell me when it started.”

Lupin grinds his jaw, looking briefly at Darcy. “April,” he says softly.

April. She’d told Lupin she loved him in April, on a chilly spring night after the full moon had waned. That night she had known, for a certainty, there was no turning back—not that she wanted to. She had never before felt the comfort a pair of arms could provide her, never known the joy a single kiss could bring her. However, April had not been the answer Darcy gave Sirius just minutes before.

“ _April_?” Sirius repeats, his eyes wide. He casts Darcy a sharp look. “You told me you weren’t a student when it—”

Lupin turns to face her, looking torn between amusement and exasperation. “Why did you lie?”

“I panicked!” Darcy hisses, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. “He was making me nervous!”

“You’re going back to Hogwarts,” Sirius says loudly, drowning out Darcy’s voice. “You’re going back to Hogwarts now.”

Darcy stands very still, looking incredulously at Sirius. How bold of him to think that he can tell her what she can and cannot do. It could be the drink, she thinks, or all of her anxiety turning into anger and pouring out of her. “I don’t have to go anywhere,” she states flatly. “Who do you think you are?”

“Your godfather,” Sirius retorts dangerously. “Your parents trusted me to care for you—”

The disgust, hurt, and contempt in his face makes Darcy’s anger peak. Even Mr. Weasley, who had been disappointed and disgusted by the situation, had been respectful towards Lupin—Mr. Weasley, not her godfather or her real father, had truly wanted what was best for her, and upon meeting Lupin and talking to him, had softened. But Sirius does not seem inclined to accept that this is what is best for Darcy.

“You are not my father, Sirius,” she says, and she frightens herself for a moment when she hears her own voice’s venomous tone, reminding herself forcibly of Snape. “You have no right to come back after years and assume to have control over my life.”

“I wasn’t given the choice to come back sooner.”

“You gave me up,” Darcy spits. “You gave me up. You could have been my family, but you gave me up.”

Sirius’s face is bloodless, seemingly sunken again, hard to read. “I didn’t have a choice, Darcy,” Sirius croaks. “I didn’t have a damn choice—I had to give you to Hagrid…”

“You always have a choice,” she continues. “By giving me to Hagrid, you forced me to start making those hard choices at _five-years-old_. I chose to care for Harry—I chose to love him, to stop his crying, to feed him. And you know who cared for me? You think the Dursleys cared about me?”

Sirius swallows loudly as Darcy’s own words echo in her head.

“I am the only one who knows what is best for me. I am the only one who has ever known what is best for me. You have no right to assume otherwise.” Darcy wipes the angry tears from her cheeks that she hadn’t realized had started to fall. “You don’t know what it was like for me. And you stand here and you claim that you’re my godfather, but what have you ever done for me? Remus has been here for me—he has listened to me, held me, wiped my tears, cared for me, loved me—do I not deserve that?”

And suddenly Lupin’s warm palm is pressing gently on the nape of her neck. “Darcy,” he murmurs into her ear. She falls into him, crying quietly against his chest as he holds her with one arm, sighing heavily.

“She’s a child,” she hears Sirius whisper. “James and Lily’s daughter.”

When Lupin speaks, his chest vibrates against her cheek, despite his voice being soft. “I know who she is.”

Darcy looks up in time to see Sirius take a wary step forward. She tenses, standing up to her full height. He takes another step, and Darcy allows him yet another. “Your parents,” he says sadly, “would be so proud of you, Darcy.”

“Would they?” Darcy doesn’t know where her anger is coming from now, where this bitterness is coming from. All she knows is that she wishes Sirius hadn’t given her up—wishes he had taken her away, to raise as his own daughter, to show her how a child should be loved. “I should have died in that crib. They’d really have been proud of that, wouldn’t they? The ultimate sacrifice. Instead, I lived, and I suffered and I hurt, and I am nothing—”

“Darcy,” Lupin whispers again, his hand now on the small of her back. “Please don’t.”

“I—” She means to keep going, but upon looking into Lupin’s face and seeing the hurt, she stops. “I think—I need to be alone for a little while.”

Lupin’s hand falls back to his side. “As you wish.”

Darcy looks at the both of them, chewing her lip, feeling very small. She hurries from the bedroom and slips out the front door of the cottage, wandering the field lit by the stars. The curtains of the large window are drawn, but she can see the glow of the fire through them, and the flashing of the television.

How could she have said those things to Sirius? They had come out of her easily enough—all of the bitter feelings she’d always kept buried. The longing for another life, away from the Dursleys and with a family that loves her—to be someone else completely. And the disturbing thought that haunts her sometimes: _it would have been better had I died that night_. _Then none of this would have ever happened to me. I wouldn’t have had to make those hard choices._

But she had made those choices, and now she will live with them always. She had chosen family—she had chosen to care for her baby brother instead of abandoning and neglecting him. She had chosen to raise Harry and to make sure he grew up knowing someone loved him. Family, the most important thing in the world, that had always been the most important thing to Darcy, and Sirius couldn’t make that same choice. _Coward_ , she thinks. _A better man than you would have taken us away._

_That’s cruel_ , another voice says. _Just because it’s not the choice you would have made…_

But she has to admit, it feels good to have gotten everything off her chest. It feels good to have stood up to him, to have defended her relationship with Lupin, to have put Sirius in his place. It felt good to have someone listen to her with their full attention. She had been intimidating and powerful in that moment, and Darcy can only remember a handful of times she’d ever displayed such strength and ferocity.

The first time she’d truly stood her ground, she had been thirteen. Dudley blamed Harry for breaking one of his video games for his computer, even though it wasn’t. Vernon had gone to retrieve his cane and Darcy had panicked, shouting the truth at Vernon—that it was really Dudley, and Dudley was a stupid, lying boy. She’d shouted about Dudley until she was red in the face and Dudley’s eyes were wide as saucers, but Vernon had become angry. Angrier than she’d ever seen him. He had beat her for that, for all she said about his son. Darcy had a black eye after he’d smacked her hard across the face, and her knuckles swelled and bruised so badly, she could barely bend them for weeks afterwards. Petunia had confined her to her room until she healed, afraid of neighbors seeing her face and hands.

Then the second time had been back in June, when Snape had burst into the hospital wing, and they’d argued loudly, spitting at each other, inches away from each other’s faces. It had felt good then, too, to yell at him—it had felt _too_ good.

And just on Halloween, Darcy had chastised Dumbledore unfairly, had thrown insults into the Headmaster’s face as if she were his equal—as if she had any right to be so rude to him. It had given her a rush and made her heart race.

And even now, Darcy can’t help feeling guilty. Sirius didn’t deserve that—he’d spent over a decade in Azkaban, alone with his worst memories and thoughts, forced to suffer more than Darcy has ever had to. But she wasn’t about to let Sirius take away the main source of her comfort and happiness during this trying time.

It’s a long time before Lupin comes outside and spots her in the middle of the field soon. He approaches from behind, his feet crunching against the dead weeds all around. “Come inside, Darcy. It’s getting cold. I’ll make you some hot cocoa.”

Her cheeks are bright pink with cold, the tip of her nose numb. The wind makes it worse; it whips her hair around and makes her ears sting. “I thought it would be different,” she tells him, turning around to face him. “I thought—with him in my life again—”

“It has been years since you’ve seen each other,” Lupin says, reaching out for her hands. “Sirius remembers you as a little girl. He remembers doting on you and protecting you. That is all he knows what to do with you. You can’t blame him for being… overly cautious.”

Darcy wraps her arms around his middle, resting her cheek against his chest.

“Come,” he insists, unwrapping her arms from him and holding her hands, pulling her gently towards the house. “I think I’ve smoothed things over. No one is going to make you go back to Hogwarts—especially me.”

“Was I wrong to say those things to Sirius?” Darcy asks him, looking away from his eyes.

Lupin shifts uncomfortably. “You once said those things to me, remember?” he says, his tone gentle and kind. Darcy looks back up at him, burning with humiliation. He moves closer to her, smoothing her hair back out of her face. “There is nothing Sirius could have done—if you’re going to be angry, be angry with me. I had the opportunity to help and I didn’t. Sirius was locked up in Azkaban—what would you have expected of him?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy admits. “But—I know it’s not his fault, and yet—when I look at him, I see what could have been. I don’t know why I get so angry, I can’t help it and I’m so sorry—”

He lets her ramble and cry and apologize until they reach the front door. He reaches out for the doorknob, hesitating with his hand upon it. “Darcy,” Lupin interrupts with a small smile. “Shut up, and come inside.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said,” Lupin chuckles, turning to her and kissing her hard for a few moments. When he pulls away, his face hovers inches before hers, his breath still hot on her lips, one hand tangled in the back of her hair. “Shut up. You don’t have to apologize to me and you know that.”

Darcy kisses him again, grabbing at his hair, running her free hand up his chest. She opens her mouth wide, to deepen the kiss, despite the bitter wind that has begun to pick up—

“Hey!”

The light that floods the front step nearly blinds Darcy. The two of them break apart quickly, lowering their hands to their sides and flushing. Sirius grabs Darcy’s upper arm roughly, pulling her inside, and she decides the best thing to do is to entertain him. She even agrees to his request that she sleep on the sofa instead of with Lupin, and Sirius tells Darcy he’ll be staying the night to be sure of it. But Darcy only waits for Sirius to fall asleep on the chair, curled up as a dog in order to be more comfortable, and she sneaks into the bedroom, slipping under the blankets and curling up beside Lupin.

“It’s kind of exciting, isn’t it?” she whispers in his ear. He hums in response, his eyes still closed, his back pressed against her chest. “Don’t you miss the secrecy of it all? The sneaking around? The possibility of getting caught?”

Lupin yawns. “Sneaking around is hard work.”

She presses a kiss behind his ear. “But wasn’t it worth it?”

The idea of her godfather lurking just on the opposite side of the door makes her heart race and adrenaline surge through her. To deliberately defy his wishes, to knowingly do exactly what he’s afraid of—it makes Darcy feel reckless. She kisses his shoulder, the top of his spine. “Sirius won’t like it,” he whispers, his voice sleepy, yet still allowing her to pepper his skin with soft kisses. “Are you trying to get me killed? He probably has his ear pressed to the door right now.”

“No,” Darcy giggles, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “If he was awake, he’d have already burst in to drag me out by the hair.”

Lupin rolls over to face her, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss, the force of it pushing her backwards slightly. At the feel of him smiling against her, Darcy laughs, throwing her head back to open up her neck to him. It’s only then, with his lips leaving sweet kisses down her throat, that Darcy remembers.

“I have to tell you something too,” she sighs as Lupin kisses the divet between her collarbones. He lifts his head, propping himself above her.

“What?”

“Ludo Bagman thinks Rita Skeeter is going to write about us.”

Lupin narrows his eyes. “Are you ashamed?”

“No,” she answers without hesitation, kissing him. “Never.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I told you I’d ruin you.”

“Ruin me?” Darcy laughs. He touches her cheek and Darcy puts her hand atop his. It breaks her heart that he would ever think that—she knows what she’s gotten into, has never for a moment forgotten what he is. “If anything, it saves me from telling everyone individually that I love you.”

Lupin doesn’t look very convinced.

“There are more important things for me to worry about than how the Wizarding World reacts to who I love,” she whispers, smiling.

“You must be mad,” he breathes.

Darcy shakes her head, laughing against his lips. “Shut up.”


	30. Chapter 30

Darcy wakes early the next morning to a sharp tapping noise.

Eyes still closed, Darcy reaches out for Lupin. Through her eyelids, she can see the light of the sun shining on her face. Grabbing hold of his shoulder, she gives Lupin a slight shake. “Remus,” she murmurs. “ _Remus_.”

He answers with a muffled hum.

“There’s a noise.”

It takes him a minute to sit up—Darcy can feel him shifting on the other side of the bed as the tapping continues. He dresses quickly, his heavy and tired footsteps crossing the room. As she’s drifting back to sleep, she hears the squeaking of the window opening and a flutter of wings. “It’s your damn owl,” he says irritably. “Go—go away. Max— _go_.”

“No,” Darcy says suddenly, rolling over to face Lupin, who’s fighting with Max. Max beats his fluffy wings against Lupin’s face, who attempts to bat him away. “Come here, Max.”

Max changes course immediately, flying to the bed and perching on Darcy’s arm. His talons tighten around her arm, his eyes fixed on Lupin. She scratches the feathers on his chest, rubbing the spot underneath his beak. Max nuzzles his head against Darcy’s cheek, making her smile. She hugs the owl to her, wishing he could curl up beside her and fall back asleep with her.

“He’s not a dog, Darcy,” Lupin sighs, standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, staring down at Darcy—sprawled across the bed—and Max, hooting feebly as if to keep Lupin far away from him. “He can’t sleep on the bed. He can go find a nice tree to sleep in like a normal owl.”

“But look how sweet he is,” Darcy protests, turning the owl around to show Lupin his sweet face. Lupin runs his hands through his already disheveled hair, sighing again in exasperation and smiling weakly at her. Darcy pulls the blanket up to her chin, hiding her bare chest from view. “Is Sirius here?”

Lupin moves to the bedroom door, opening it and sticking his head out. Darcy calls for him when he walks out of the room; he returns alone, but with a newspaper in his hands. “He’s gone,” Lupin says softly, slightly strained. He busies himself with the paper, seating himself at Darcy’s feet.

_He’s gone_. _He left without saying goodbye_. Darcy wonders if Sirius is talking to Buckbeak now, complaining about her, brooding over the fact that she’d slept with Lupin anyway. He must have read the paper, anyway, if it had been just lying in the living room. Darcy chews the inside of her cheek.

Darcy sits up and Max resituates himself, perching instead on her left shoulder. The tips of his talons pierce the raised scar tissue on her bare shoulder and she hisses, startling both Max and Lupin. “Not that shoulder, you stupid,” Darcy growls at Max, and even she’s taken aback at how quickly the owl obliges, moving to her right shoulder instead. She glances at Lupin, his eyes fixed on the scars. “Remus?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head and looking back down at the newspaper in his hands. Frowning, Lupin shows Darcy the front page. There are pictures of all four champions, but Harry’s picture is the largest, taking up most of the front page. The article underneath is long and continues on a second page. Lupin reads it aloud to her and she cringes, noticing Lupin’s nose scrunching during particularly disgusting parts. Not that any of it is bad or accusing, but it’s wrong—it paints Harry in a light that is most unlike him, as a troubled child who cries himself to sleep, longing for his parents. There are quotes that Darcy knows she would never hear from Harry’s mouth—she, who knows Harry best, is certain he would never tell Rita Skeeter anything of the sort. Rita continues to quote other students who seem to worship Harry, and even makes claims of a budding romance between he and Hermione.

When Lupin finally finishes, Darcy imagines the words must have left a bad taste in his mouth. He scans the inner page of the _Daily Prophet_ , looking up over the top at her warily. “She wrote about you,” he rasps, still groggy from his sudden wake up call. “There’s a picture.”

Darcy runs her fingers down Max’s chest again and sees his watchful eyes close. “Read it,” she whispers, trying to sound confident.

Lupin clears his throat again, looking up into her face before continuing. “‘Darcy Potter may have been beautiful once, but now tragedy and suffering are written plain across her weathered face’—well, that’s quite rude. I think you’re beautiful.”

She almost smiles at the way he furrows his brow upon reading the words. “Keep going.”

“Sorry,” Lupin murmurs. “‘Haunted by the idea of her baby brother possibly dying in the harrowing trials and tests that await him, Darcy admits to me in confidence that the nightmares keep her awake at night’—

“I said no such thing!”

“—‘When I ask her how she deals with the pressures of being the older sister of The Boy Who Lived, she smiles coyly, making her look much more beautiful, and tells me that she’s recently—or not so recently—found solace in a man. I ask for all the details and Darcy so willingly obliges’—”

“I didn’t tell her anything, I swear it,” Darcy says. “I never said anything about us.”

“Darcy, I believe you. Do you want me to keep reading?”

The rest of the article is a lie and it eats at Darcy. It details, untruthfully, how Lupin and Darcy had first met at Hogwarts, how they’d connected instantly due to their tragic pasts and it started a passionate affair that lasted throughout the school year. “‘Sometimes he just holds me while I cry for my parents,’ Darcy tells me, a tear rolling down one of her rosy cheeks.’” Lupin stops for a moment, looking at her again before continuing. He reads outloud to her about how brave and selfless Darcy is for loving a man such as himself—a werewolf, a dangerous creature, a monster.

“You are none of those things,” Darcy whispers, shooing Max off her shoulder and moving closer to Lupin. She wraps her arms around him, resting her forehead against his shoulder as he continues, occasionally kissing the exposed flesh.

The rest of the article details Darcy’s relationship with her mentor Professor Severus Snape, her unlikely friendship with Ludo Bagman, and also addresses the rumors that Darcy had entered Harry into the Triwizard Tournament—and Rita Skeeter makes sure to leave the question and rumors open-ended, allowing readers to believe what they will. When Lupin finishes, he lowers the newspaper to his lap and Darcy sees the photograph for the first time. It’s a black and white one, and may very well be a Muggle photograph for how still Darcy is standing. Harry seems to have left the photograph completely, but Darcy looks into the camera, stony faced and serious. She shifts her weight back and forth on her feet, her hair combed over to one side, falling into her face.

Darcy looks at Lupin again, releasing him and licking her dry lips. “I’m sorry,” she breathes, unsure of what to say that will make it better. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s going to be an inquiry,” Lupin says slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he swallows hard. “They’re going to see a werewolf that took advantage of a young girl on Dumbledore’s watch, and if they see your shoulder—if they find out that I’ve hurt you—while I was at Hogwarts—”

“No,” Darcy blurts out. “Professor Dumbledore was there—he knows I didn’t tell that foul woman anything. Mr. Bagman was there, as well. I’ll tell them it’s all lies—”

Darcy comes to a sudden realization, remembering Ludo’s words to her as he had escorted her back to the dungeons. _I should have given her what she wanted_ , Darcy thinks. _Maybe she still would have lied, but the truth would be there too_. In her anger and anxiety over the past night, she hadn’t thought once about what an article might do to Lupin—only what it would do to _her. I had the power to shape that article, and instead I gave the power to Rita Skeeter._

“We made a mistake,” he tells her, bringing her forcibly back to reality, interrupting her train of thought. “We shouldn’t have—we should have waited—I—I should have known better.”

There’s a swooping sensation in her stomach that makes her want to throw up. “What? Don’t say that,” she whispers, pleadingly. “It was my fault.”

“Did I ever say no? Did I push you off me? Did I do anything to stop you?”

In truth, he had. And Darcy has a feeling he knows it. Lupin had tried several times to push her away—maybe not physically, never while she was kissing him or on top of him. But he’d made the effort, had expressed regret after touching her even innocently. And yet, how many times had he also initiated things? How many times had he draped an arm around her shoulders? Or put a hand on the small of her back? Or twined their fingers together while they sat together on the sofa? All of those small moments had made her heart stop, had made her blush. Darcy had known it was wrong, yet continued to pursue him, always aching for him, always wanting him a little bit closer.

“You made it damn near impossible for me to refuse you.” He holds his head in his hands, and Darcy watches on helplessly. She covers her chest with her arms, looking away. “I felt things for you, Darcy, that I’d not felt in years—if ever. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been touched so gently and so lovingly. I forgot myself.”

He’d held her afterwards, as if she were his. He had kissed her everywhere his lips could reach, had showered her with compliments and affection while his fingertips grazed her bare stomach. Lupin had taken his time exploring her body, testing her limits to see how far he could go, always watching her face for a reaction, waiting for her to stop him. But she never had—she hadn’t thought at all about telling him to stop, despite the absurdity of the situation, all boundaries and consequences forgotten. She hadn’t stopped him when he continued to strip her, hadn’t stopped him when he curled his fingers inside her, hadn’t stopped him when he kissed between her thighs. _It’s my fault,_ she tells herself. _It’s my fault—I shouldn’t have tried so damn hard to break him. I shouldn’t have tried so hard to have him._

“I’m sorry,” she says again, moving away from him and sliding off the bed. She searches the floor for her clothes, wanting to cry. “When Max comes back, please send him to me at Hogwarts.”

“You’re not leaving.”

Darcy freezes, standing up straight very slowly. His tone is no longer gentle, but firm and commanding, and it sends a shiver of pleasure down her spine. She blushes again, knowing it’s not the time to be having such thoughts, but Lupin’s eyes are traveling from her face down her naked body, down her long legs, and then they flick back to her own eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says again, the only thing she knows how to say right now. “I—I’ve forgotten who I am.”

Lupin hesitates, looking away from her, down at the photograph of Darcy in the paper. “You have forgotten who _I_ am. What I am.”

“I’ve never forgotten,” Darcy admits sheepishly, reaching back down for her clothes. “I just chose to ignore it.”

He stands, shaking his head. “You think if you just—close your eyes, it will go away?” he snarls, making Darcy dress faster. He points to the open newspaper on the bed. “That is all I will ever be to them. They will mock you, berate you—because it is a shameful thing to be with someone like me. It is frightening to them, to see you with me. You have good reason to be afraid of me, Darcy. I will never be good enough for you—I have never been and will never be anything more than a—” He sighs, rubbing his face.

Darcy continues to dress, feeling very sad and very sorry for him. “You insist on seeing yourself as a monster,” she whispers, pulling her sweater over her head and fixing her hair. “Do you truly believe I have forgotten what you are? What you are capable of?”

Lupin’s eyes flick to her shoulder, where the three long scars that mar the flesh there will forever serve as a reminder. Darcy approaches him, takes his hand in hers and guides it to her face. He cups her cheek in his hand, his thumb lightly brushing her lips. She closes her eyes as Lupin trails his fingertips along her jaw and down her throat. When Darcy opens her eyes again, it’s to find Lupin looking at her carefully, searching her face for a reaction, likely waiting for her to flinch or pull away from him.

“I am not afraid of you.” Darcy almost protests when his hand falls to his side again.

Lupin scoffs, pulling aside the collar of her sweater to reveal the ends of the scars. “A mocking reminder of my worst fears come to life. Everytime I see them, they are there to humiliate me, to shame me—to throw in my face what I really am. I could have killed you. I could have bitten you.” Lupin releases her collar, hiding her shoulder again. His tone is bitter and angry. “Would you still have forgiven me if I’d turned you? Would you still have begged me to stay?”

She shudders, not wanting to imagine it. Darcy suddenly feels ashamed of the scars, embarrassed by them. She thinks of all the kisses they’ve received, all of the apologies he’s murmured at the sight of them, all the times his eyes have found them first even when she was standing naked in front of him. “You didn’t bite me, so it doesn’t matter,” she answers. “Please don’t think I hold it against you. Please don’t think I’m angry or—or frightened.”

He’s quiet for a long time, thinking hard. And finally, Lupin sighs. “I want to show you something.”

“All right,” Darcy smiles weakly. “What?”

“I want to take you somewhere.”

“Okay.”

Two hours later—both of them showered and changed and fed—the two of them Disapparate from the front of Lupin’s home, only to find solid footing just a village, with rain pouring down on them. Lupin quickly conjures an umbrella just big enough for both of them to stand under, but not before their hair gets soaked, and puts a hand on the small of Darcy’s back to guide her towards the village.

The village is situated on the coastline, the buildings larger than the small cottages in Hogsmeade, but about half the size of the Wizarding-village. As they approach, Darcy spies the road that leads into the village and they continue to follow it. A waist-height, old and crumbling wall surrounds the town, just as old as the buildings and completely collapsed in some areas. The air smells salty as they get closer, and when they actually enter the village and turn off the main road onto a cobblestone street, Darcy can’t help herself—she looks around in awe and wonder, never having seen anything like it.

There are some people walking quickly up and down the street, and one old man smiles at Darcy from under his broken umbrella, muttering, “Mornin’.”

“Good morning,” Darcy says as he passes.

Lupin doesn’t speak as he continues to lead her through the labyrinth that is the village. Darcy continues to admire the crowded buildings, feeling as if she’s stepped back in time. The brick is discolored on most buildings, and tudor-style cottages are placed here and there along the streets. Through a wide alley, Darcy spots a few carts set up selling fresh saltwater fish, caught only that morning. The rain seems to have driven many people inside already, and Lupin has to take Darcy’s hand to keep her moving.

“It’s beautiful here,” she tells him as Lupin pulls her down another side street, his eyes scanning the doors of the houses. “What are we doing here? Where are we?”

“It’s just—er—I think down this street,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Darcy.

The rain starts to fall harder, making it hard for Darcy to hear what he’s saying to himself. Darcy squeezes his hand and he squeezes back, pulling her down yet another side street. There’s a café here, a flashing _Open_ sign above the door, a bookstore across the street, and a small grocery with produce on display in the window. Past the shops and more homes and they take a left, where more tudor cottages are placed atop a hill. Four of them about the size of the Dursleys’ house at Privet Drive, but with more land. Smoke rises from three of the chimneys, like gray fingers, fading away into the dark, cloudy sky. Lupin continues to pull her towards the fourth cottage, the one that is dark and, upon closer inspection, fallen in shambles and looking to be uninhabitable.

They stop just outside the front door, in a shallow puddle. The windows have been boarded up, the gate that borders the front yard closed and locked. Ivy crawls up the sides of the house, the yard completely overgrown and spotted with late blooming wildflowers. Even in shambles, the house and property is quite beautiful—mysterious, haunted. Lupin moves forward and Darcy follows, if only to keep under the umbrella, and he grabs onto the fence, rattling it.

“What is this place?” Darcy asks him, looping her arm around his. As the words leave her mouth, she feels she already knows the answer.

“This is where it happened,” he says, and though his voice is quiet, Darcy can hear him perfectly. “Where I was bitten.”

She looks at the house again, trying to imagine Lupin as a four-year-old. The only images that come to her are of him bleeding out, his smooth, child’s forearm savaged by another werewolf, his breathing fast and shallow. She imagines his parents finding their young son in that condition, terrified and sobbing. The thought makes her sick to her stomach. Lupin shakes her off his arm, pulling his wand out and tapping the padlock. The lock springs open and the gate creaks slightly as he pulls it open. Looking over his shoulder and around at the other houses, Lupin continues up the walkway, leaving Darcy in the rain.

“What are you doing?” she calls out, the rain soaking her hair and clothes. He doesn’t answer her, so Darcy runs forward, entering the house after he loosens the boards with his wand again. She closes the door behind them and looks around, shivering and holding her arms around her. Lupin breaks down the umbrella and shakes the water off. It spills onto the stained and dated carpet, and Lupin stands it up in a corner. Darcy wipes the tip of her nose, from where rain drips onto her feet.

The house is empty for the most part. There’s a small fireplace in the room, along with an end table with broken legs. Darcy looks in the hearth and realizes that a fire has likely not been lit in it for years. She doesn’t see any evidence of anyone having been inside at all for years. There is no furniture, no paintings or pictures on the walls, no plants, and in the kitchen there are no dishes or cooking equipment and all of the drawers are empty. Lupin wanders alone, watching her look through the house, pushing his fingers through his hair all the while.

When he starts up the stairs, Darcy follows him. Three bedrooms are on the second floor—one of them bigger than even Petunia and Vernon’s bedroom. Darcy lights her wand and looks at the cracked windows, the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. She follows Lupin into the second bedroom, slightly smaller than the first, and then the last bedroom, which takes her by surprise. There is more furniture in here—a wardrobe marred by deep scratch marks; a broken bed frame, a smashed lamp covered with a thick layer of dust. Even the walls are scratched, the wallpaper peeling in places—maybe once, Darcy thinks, the wallpaper was blue, but now it’s faded, and in the dark it looks gray and moldy.

“My mother loved this house,” he explains from the threshold. “Even years after we left, she always talked about returning one day. I—regret that she could not stay. If it hadn’t been for me…” Lupin walks over to the single window, also boarded up. “I had a view of the sea. Once a month, my parents would lock me in here, and I’d sit and watch the sea until I transformed.”

Darcy swallows loudly, looking around the room again. This room is heavy, the atmosphere almost painful.

“He came in through the window,” Lupin continues. “And bit me in my own bed. That was his intention—to turn me, not to kill me. I didn’t know that until many years later, after I’d spent years feeling sorry for the werewolf that did it.”

She listens carefully, her heart racing.

“My father insulted werewolves.” Lupin laughs humorlessly, frowning. “This was his punishment—to have his son turned into one of the monsters he so feared and despised.”

“That’s awful.” It seems an inadequate response, but Lupin doesn’t seem to mind. He looks at Darcy and smiles only for a moment before it disappears again.

“I haven’t been here in years,” he admits. “The last time I set foot in here was the day we left. I did come back the night that—the night your parents died. I wanted to come back to where it all started. And I thought, with you here this time, coming back would be less painful. And I was right.” Lupin holds a hand out for her. “Come here, my love.”

She obliges, walking quickly towards him and allowing him to take her hand in his. “I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I’m sorry for what Rita Skeeter called you. I’m sorry for everything.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Lupin replies. He holds her hand up to his mouth, placing gentle kisses on her fingers. “Sometimes I wish life could have been different. I could be—closer to what you deserve, but if life was different, you might never have been mine at all. And what a sorry life that would be without a friend like you, Darcy.”

Darcy smiles weakly and stands on her tiptoes, peppering his face with soft kisses, her hands on his face, holding it in place. Her lips taste the salt of his tears when she kisses his cheeks—tears she hadn’t even realized he’d been crying—and when she finally kisses his lips, he’s smiling again. “Would you take me to see my parents’ house?” she asks quietly, wrapping her arms around his neck and looking up into his face. “If I return, I want it to be with you.”

Lupin licks his lips, hesitant. “I would love to be the one to take you back,” he answers slowly. “But I don’t think I’m the right person to be there for your first time. If you must go back, why not do it with Harry first? Or Sirius?”

Darcy brushes his hair out of his eyes. Returning with Harry would be ideal, but she can’t imagine he’d understand the crushing weight of that pain. He had only been a baby. But to return with Sirius—with the man that had rescued her, the man that held her so tightly upon pulling her from the rubble. Yet Darcy can’t help but think having Lupin at her side would indeed make it easier. A hand to hold when she needed it one, someone to wipe her tears, someone to kiss her over and over until she forgets.

“Do you think often of returning?” Lupin catches her wrist, lowering it from his face, but twining their fingers together.

“No,” she answers truthfully. “Never. I’m afraid. Afraid of what I’ll remember, afraid of what I’ll feel.”

Lupin sighs. “Let’s get out of here.”

Keeping her hand firmly in his own, Lupin pulls her from the bedroom and down the stairs again. Darcy puts her free hand on the banister, pulling it away with dust on her palm. She wipes it on her pants, making her way to the sitting room. There, Lupin releases Darcy’s hand and turns to face her. She stops abruptly, feeling his eyes wash over her.

“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he says and Darcy blushes, looking away sheepishly towards the fireplace. “I’ve flirted with the idea of bringing you here for a long time, but I’ve never gathered the courage until now. After all, I know so much about your childhood that—I suppose it’s only right for you to see where it all began for me.”

Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears, looking down at her feet.

_The world really is cruel_ , she thinks to herself, _to rob a young boy of his life because of something his father said._

Tears begin to well in her eyes and she tries to wipe them away before he sees them, but Lupin is on her quickly. He smiles at her, a toothy grin, wiping her tears with his thumbs. “Why are you crying?” he chuckles.

“I don’t know,” Darcy laughs, the sight of his smile igniting a fire in her. But her smile fades, and Darcy looks away. “I’m just—sad for you.” Her words fall flat; Darcy thinks she sounds stupid, childish, and regrets speaking. But just to imagine the fear he must have felt, to imagine the horror of it all, frightens Darcy.

“I didn’t bring you here to garner pity or sympathy,” he says, not unkindly. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

His jaw clenches. “Darcy, that article of Rita Skeeter’s—” The thought seems to pain him. “Everyone will know what we’ve done.”

“I don’t regret it,” she answers firmly. “I’m not ashamed of what we’ve done, and I know the man you—”

But he surprises her, cutting her off with bruising kiss. Darcy melts into him, feeling selfish and slightly anxious. On Monday, when she walks into the Great Hall, people will know that she’d slept with her teacher; the others teachers will be disgusted, shamed—Dumbledore will be chastised, Lupin may be chastised, and likely a bit more harshly than Dumbledore. What could they really do to him? _Besides destroy the last bit of his already wavering self-confidence_. A monster, Rita Skeeter had called him. A monster, a creature, a dangerous half-breed, not to be trusted.

_But how I love him_ , she thinks. _How did I ever live without him?_

He kisses her doubts and fears away easily—as soon as his lips touch her jaw, her mind goes blank and Darcy can’t even remember what she’d been thinking about. Her heart thumps violently against her chest, blood pumping in her ears. When Lupin pulls away from her, it’s only to have his eyes rove her face, half shadowed in the dark room.

They look at each other for what seems like a long time. The knowledge of where they are—of what happened here to Lupin so long ago, when he was only a small, innocent boy—makes Darcy hesitant and a little wary. “Maybe we should just go home,” she whispers on his lips.

“Home?” he repeats, the ghost of a smile on his face.

“I mean— _your_ home,” she adds hastily, blushing fiercely. “Not _my_ home—I mean, I only meant—”

But he kisses her again, smiling against her lips, and Darcy feels her stomach fluttering madly. His fingers tangle in the back of her still damp hair, and then pulls away once more. She frowns up at him. “You know that if you want to leave, I won’t stop you,” he says, and Darcy feels a lurching in her stomach instead of the fluttering of butterflies. “Just know that I’d miss you terribly.”

Darcy can’t help herself—she laughs. “You thought by bringing me here, you’d frighten me away?”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. Lupin only gives her a pathetic look, his fingers still in her red hair.

“I’m not leaving,” she tells him. “I’m not leaving because of an old house, or because of whatever Rita Skeeter printed in some stupid newspaper.” Darcy wraps her arms around herself. “Can we go home now?”

Lupin laughs weakly—incredulously, in complete and utter disbelief—before kissing her. “ _Home_.”

* * *

“Shut up. You did _not_ desecrate his parents’ house like that.”

“We didn’t, not truly.” Darcy’s eyes are wide with the memory of the previous night, still fresh in her head. The fire had been so warm against her bare skin, yet his touch still made goosebumps rise everywhere. The hammering of the rain on the roof had muffled her cries, his laughter. She smiles blankly, unable to think of much else. “Gemma, he didn’t even take his clothes off.” She pauses, scoffing before giving Gemma the most serious look in the world. “I think I’m in love.”

“What?”

“He did things I never knew were possible,” Darcy breathes, out of breath and her heart racing in her chest. She remembers being seated at a table in the corner of the café they’d passed earlier that day, the cocky smile on his face when they’d meet eyes—the same goofy smile he’d give her every time after they’d slept together. “And I found out a lot about myself, too. We went to lunch afterwards and he was so—normal, and I was questioning everything I’ve ever known. Is it normal for one thing to slightly disgust _and_ arouse you at the same time?”

“I think a good fuck should always leave you a bit disgusted with yourself,” Gemma admits, shrugging her shoulders as if this is common knowledge.

Darcy sighs heavily as Madam Pomfrey finishes cleaning up at the other end of the hospital wing. She doesn’t pay the other girls much attention, but they both wait until she goes into her office to continue in lower voices. “It doesn’t matter though, how much I love him,” Darcy says. “Sirius hates us now.”

“You’re telling me you’re surprised he acted that way?” Gemma asks. “The man just got out of Azkaban and found out that his best friend is fucking his goddaughter. I’m sure that came as a real shock.”

Narrowing her eyes, Darcy sits up straighter on the cot. “Why does it sound like you’re defending Sirius?” Darcy hisses. “You didn’t see him—I thought he was going to throttle Remus. I mean, how can he think he can pretend to be my father after he gave me up when I was a little girl?”

“You’re being a bit unfair,” Gemma counters, her voice sharp as a whip. “I’m sure he’s not trying to be your father. I’m sure he’s just trying to make up for all those years he was away. He knows you haven’t had anyone to look after you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

When Darcy fails to find an answer, Gemma smirks.

“I see,” she says. “You wanted him to be a father to you until you found out what he truly thinks about your relationship.”

“No!” But Darcy flushes a deep red and she knows all is lost.

“Look, I think it could have been a lot worse,” Gemma smiles. “If I was in your situation and _my_ parents found out, I wouldn’t be here to have this conversation. I wouldn’t even be disowned—my parents would either die of shock and heartbreak or they’d live long enough to kill me and _then_ die of shock.”

“You think I was being too harsh with him?”

“Yes, I do,” Gemma answers sharply. “What would you have done in his position? Directly disobey Dumbledore’s orders? Hagrid was told to bring both you and Harry to Privet Drive and Sirius knew that. You can’t be angry with him for things out of his control—things that happened fourteen years ago. You sure hold a mean grudge, Darcy, do you know that? Sirius loves you, so just let him, would you?”

Darcy is quiet for a moment, her cheeks still burning, picking at some fuzz on her pants. The empty hospital wing suddenly feels small and suffocating. The words she had thrown in Sirius’s face shame her now. “Did you read the article?”

“Yeah,” Gemma scoffs, “I read it. I already told Dumbledore it wasn’t true.”

“You _what_?” Darcy had never imagined she could ever be so humiliated. “Why would you do that? What did you tell him? What did he say?”

“I told him that it wasn’t true,” she repeats. “That anything that _may_ have happened, happened towards the end of the year, and anything that _may_ have happened was completely consensual.”

“And what did he say?”

Gemma clears her throat, sitting up straight on the cot and putting on her best Dumbledore voice. “‘I appreciate your concern for your friends, Miss Smythe, but you shouldn’t trouble yourself. We will make sure the article and situation are handled appropriately between the parties involved.’” She shrugs her shoulders. “Madam Pomfrey said the article was disgusting and a sorry excuse for journalism—even the one about Harry, too. She’s refusing to read the _Prophet_ now as long as Rita Skeeter is writing for it.”

“That’s kind of her,” Darcy replies with a small smile. She glances towards the closed office door.

“Listen, Darcy,” Gemma says, patting Darcy’s knee. “People have been telling lies about me all of my life, all because of the family I was born into. Even you believed them at first, remember? But I know who I am, and I know that people who don’t care to get to know me are stupid to believe those lies. Anyway, the article Rita Skeeter put out is just gossip. I know you’ve always been wary of the spotlight, but it could have been a lot worse.”

“Worse than the entire school knowing you’re involved with your former teacher who’s also a werewolf?”

“You should be proud,” Gemma tells her, leaning in slightly, smiling again—always smiling. “Any man who does such dirty things to you in his childhood home—where he was bitten—and then asks for nothing in return is a man that you should be proud to have.”

Darcy forces herself to smile. “I am proud. I just feel like sometimes, it’s not enough for him.”

Gemma chuckles. “The guy probably hadn’t been touched for years until you came along, and now things are confusing for him because he’s found he _likes_ being touched,” Gemma says. When Gemma sees the skepticism showing plain on Darcy’s face, she plunged on recklessly. “I’ve never met a man who hates himself more than Lupin does. I promise you— _you’re_ not the problem. And you are not obligated to fix him, Darcy.”

Darcy chews her bottom lip, wanting to be warm and snug in her bed.

“Hey,” Gemma snaps. “Darcy, look at me right now.”

Startled, Darcy lifts her eyes to meet Gemma’s brown ones. “What?”

“I know you,” she continues, holding a stern finger up at Darcy’s face. “Tell me right now that you know you are not obligated to fix him. I need to hear you say it. I need to know that you know this.”

“I know I’m not obligated to do anything,” Darcy answers quickly, crossing her arms over her chest. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

“You’re hopeless, you stupid romantic,” Gemma says, rolling her eyes. Checking her watch, Gemma stands, stretching obnoxiously. “I gotta go. I’ve got first shift at St Mungo’s and it’s getting late.”

“When will you be back?”

“Wednesday and Thursday. Want to have a sleepover? I’ll bring the good stuff.” Gemma raises her eyebrows.

Darcy walks Gemma out the doors of the hospital wing, the darkness of the corridors unnerving. “I’d like that.”

Gemma grins. “Harry said next weekend is a Hogsmeade visit. Let’s get everyone together and have lunch. I’ll even force Emily to join us.”

“Sounds great.”

They part at the doors of the entrance hall. Darcy watches Gemma walk down the path to Hogsmeade, hands deep in her pockets, whistling to herself, as if she hasn’t a care in the world. _What I wouldn’t give to be Gemma right now_ , Darcy thinks, frowning. To be undeniably beautiful, to have a family (though Darcy squirms at the thought of Mr. and Mrs. Smythe being Death Eaters), to have a successful career—to be walking down to Hogsmeade to go home, to not have to worry about Rita Skeeter printing stupid articles that may destroy her reputation.

Darcy watches Gemma until she’s swallowed by the darkness, until her whistling grows so faint, Darcy isn’t sure if she’s really hearing it at all.

 


	31. Chapter 31

Darcy thinks about Gemma that night for longer than she cares to admit.

There had been times through her years at Hogwarts when Gemma had been someone Darcy truly admired. She had been confident, graceful and elegant, brutally honest, and fiercely loyal. What would Gemma do now if she were in Darcy’s position? Darcy can picture it clearly—Gemma strolling through the Great Hall, whistling that stupid song, grinning like she always does, joking about their latest sexual escapade without the slightest tint to her cheeks. Gemma would embrace the article with all the dignity in the world, somehow twist it to her advantage, somehow sleep at night knowing hundreds of people are whispering behind her back.

_Could I do that_? That takes a certain kind of bravery she doesn’t possess, Darcy thinks. _I have faced a basilisk and I’ve looked into Voldemort’s eyes. And yet I can’t even summon the courage to walk into the Great Hall_. She would lay here, in bed, forever—until someone came to fetch her. And with her luck, it would likely be Snape, pulling her out of bed by the hair after she’d missed one single class. Or Dumbledore, to berate her for shattering his trust, which makes the guilt press heavy on Darcy’s chest. Dumbledore, who had always been so kind and so good to Harry, could no longer trust Harry’s sister.

And what would the others do? Surely Emily would snap in anyone’s direction who dared reference the article. Surely she would keep a scowl on her face until the buzz of chatter died down after a few weeks. Her anger has always been something terrible to behold, intimidating and frightening. Emily would most certainly turn icy cold at what had been written—but Emily would never have gotten herself into a situation like that.

And Carla would probably shrink away, embarrassed and overwhelmed at first; she had always been more reserved as a young girl, but of late, Darcy thinks she’s grown a bit bolder, as if finally figuring herself out. She hopes Carla will be there to reassure her, to smile at her and let her know that it’s going to be all right.

And as humiliated as Darcy is, she can’t help but to feel angry. Angry at herself, for letting herself be walked all over by someone like Rita Skeeter. _I’m just a stupid girl, a stupid blushing mess of a girl_. But I don’t have to be anymore. When the _Daily Prophet_ pointed the finger at Darcy for entering Harry into the Triwizard Tournament, she’d been dignified about it, but that had been almost easy—only stupid people believed she put Harry’s name in. What a ridiculous rumor, a ridiculous lie. But as ridiculous as the new article is, there’s more truth in it than the last. Maybe they hadn’t been fucking all year as Rita Skeeter suggested, but they still hadn’t been completely innocent throughout.

Darcy takes a deep breath, thinking of what their bad, reckless, and impulsive decisions have brought her—the best days of her life, the happiest days.

_I will not let Rita Skeeter ruin that._

* * *

Darcy wakes to a faint rustling noise. She sits up quickly, pulling her wand out from beneath her pillow. Listening carefully, she waits for it to stop, but something is rustling just beyond her bedroom door. She slides out of bed and tiptoes to the door, opening it quickly and scaring both Harry and Hermione. Darcy exhales loudly, her wand pointing directly at them.

Harry drops the papers in his hand and they flutter back to the tabletop. He has the grace to blush, at least. “I told him not to!” Hermione says shrilly, her cheeks slightly red. “I told him not to touch anything!”

“What are you going through my stuff for?” Darcy asks, lowering her wand, her heart racing. “That’s private.”

“I was just wondering if you graded my homework yet,” Harry frowns, straightening the stack of parchment, his eyes lingering.

“Nice try,” Darcy replies. “You know Snape doesn’t let me grade your homework anymore.”

“Walk with us to breakfast, Darcy.” Hermione gives her a toothy smile, revealing her front teeth, now a bit smaller and than before they’d even been hit with a hex. Darcy smiles back, nodding, and disappears back into her room, digging around in her wardrobe and throwing potential outfits onto the foot of her bed.

Twenty minutes later—hair and teeth brushed, her favorite dress on, her shoes slightly squeezing her feet, and her robes heavy around her shoulders—Darcy, Harry, and Hermione make their slow way down to the Great Hall. It’s hard not to notice the wide berth many of the younger students give them as they race past, and the older students who do pass them give Harry, Hermione, and Darcy sideways looks before lowering their voices and picking up their pace.

Darcy watches them go, her palms starting to sweat. “Have they been giving you a hard time?” she asks the both of them.

”Yes,” Harry answers, almost sounding bitter.

”I’ve been telling him to ignore it,” Hermione says. “It’s not worth getting upset over.”

Darcy hums in response.

“The first task is next Tuesday,” Harry says casually, as they start down the first set of stairs.

“What?” Darcy looks quickly at Harry, her eyes wide with shock, and without warning the step disappears beneath her foot and she falls. Crying out in pain, one of her long legs dangling, almost doing a complete split, Harry and Hermione both grab Darcy under the arms, pulling her up. Rubbing her inner thighs and feeling a sharp pain in between her legs, Hermione quickly gathers Darcy’s spilled parchment, putting it back into her bag. “Dammit, I think I pulled my groin. _God_ —it hurts so bad—”

“I’m assuming you heard me, then?” Harry asks.

“What are you going to do? Didn’t they give you any hints or clues as to what the task is?” Darcy runs a hand through her hair, making sure to watch her steps carefully. “I should write Remus—he wanted to be here for the first task.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Harry admits. “But—I was thinking, Ludo likes you and if you maybe just asked—”

“That’s _cheating_ ,” Hermione hisses, giving them both sharp and dangerous looks. “Besides, Ludo Bagman likely won’t tell Darcy if he hasn’t already. He probably knows that she’ll tell Harry. And you shouldn’t ask him, Darcy. The last thing you need is to add fuel to that fire. Maybe you could teach Harry some new spells, though—handy ones, basic ones, just in case.”

“I don’t know, Hermione,” Darcy frowns, making her way down another staircase. “I’m not much of a teacher.”

“Isn’t that exactly why you’re here?” Hermione retorts.

Darcy blushes, scowling. “Listen, Remus might come to Hogsmeade this weekend. Maybe you could practice with him, Harry, while you’re down there.”

“No,” Hermione continues, before Harry can answer. “That’s a very nice thought and a good one, but Harry can’t wait until the weekend.”

“Why don’t we let Harry have a say?” Darcy snaps, and Hermione quiets, looking away with a pink tint to her cheeks. “He’s the one who has to compete.”

“I don’t know, Hermione,” Harry says, slightly irritably. “I mean—what spells would help me when I don’t even know what I’m up against?”

The three of them continue to bicker all the way to the Great Hall, snapping at each other and making each other angry and jumpy. At the bottom of the marble staircase, a gaggle of young girls crowd around something, giggling and waving quills and Darcy can make out the top of someone’s head in the middle—dark hair cut short and a prominent forehead.

“Hey! Leave him alone!” Darcy shouts at the girls. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

They all turn around, see Darcy, and shove their quills and parchment away, scattering. Viktor Krum clears his throat and brushes himself off, looking rather disheveled. “Thank you,” he grunts, and Darcy gives him a small smile. His eyes flick from Darcy to Harry and finally Hermione before he slouches off into the Great Hall.

“You’re turning into Snape,” Harry mutters, earning him a fearsome look from his sister.

The three of them linger at the threshold of the Great Hall. Darcy knows that Harry and Hermione have only stayed by her side to give her comfort, and she appreciates it, but Darcy wants to be anywhere but here. She catches Snape’s eye across the long hall and they look at each other for a long while before Darcy turns to Harry, a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “I think I’m just going to go wait in Snape’s classroom. I’ll see you guys later.”

“No, Darcy,” Hermione says, taking hold of Darcy’s hand. “If you run away, you’ll only make it worse.”

Hermione is right—Darcy knows it. As Harry and Hermione speed off to the Gryffindor table, Darcy puts one foot in front of the other, walking the length of the Great Hall. Her eyes wander to the Hufflepuff table for a moment, if only to see Carla, but when she looks and sees pairs upon pairs of eyes on her, she looks back to her empty seat at the teachers’ table. She tries to will herself not to blush, but she can feel it creeping up the back of her neck, her cheeks stinging with embarrassment. McGonagall is watching her, lips pursed, and even Dumbledore gives her a curious look.

She takes her seat beside Snape. “May I read your paper, please?” she asks softly.

Snape slides the paper in front of her. Darcy looks it over, too distracted to read, but glad for something to attract her attention. “Why do you want to read that?” Snape says, and Darcy looks up at him. “After the charming article that was published?”

Darcy sighs, closing the _Daily Prophet_. There’s nothing of importance in there anyway, and Darcy’s eyes hurt from straining to read the words. She fills her plate with food, glancing up at the Great Hall to find that not as many people are watching her as she had thought. The Slytherins are whispering to each other, though—giving her sideways looks and muttering and laughing, led by Draco Malfoy. The older Slytherins don’t seem to be paying him much attention, and Darcy wishes Gemma could still be in school, seated at the table, telling everyone to shut up. They’d listen to her—Darcy knows they would.

She takes little bites of her food, not as hungry as she thought. Her mind is buzzing with anxieties, and Darcy feels angry with herself for forgetting momentarily about the Triwizard Tournament. The first task is approaching so quickly, and no one seems to know anything about it. Darcy supposes she could ask Emily to snoop around the Ministry to try and find out, but what good would that do? Emily has yet to report back anything after she’d promised to dig a little deeper into the whole situation, and even if Emily did find out what the task is, it leaves very little time to properly prepare.

Maybe Hermione has the right of it—it certainly wouldn’t hurt to teach Harry some new spells, and they could even do it in the privacy of Darcy’s own rooms. But what spells would she teach him? Without knowing anything about the task that comes creeping ever closer, it’s hard to think about the skills that will be necessary to get him through it. She thinks Lupin would be a much better option for this—after all, it had been he who taught Harry the Patronus Charm what seems a lifetime ago—and Darcy knows that he is ten times the teacher she ever will be. But to wait an entire week to see him only for a day before the task is not the best idea, and it doesn’t seem enough time for Harry to get the hang of some new spells, especially ones beyond his skill level.

Darcy thinks of Ludo Bagman briefly. She _could_ ask him for any information—he had promised to help Harry through the Triwizard Tournament, and so far he’s done nothing that she’s aware of. Harry and Hermione don’t know that, of course, and they don’t need to, but Darcy thinks it would be almost too easy to charm Ludo Bagman, to smile at him and play the innocent little girl in order to weasel some information out of him. Out of all the judges, Ludo Bagman is the only one that Darcy is certain would accidentally let skip the details of the first task—or confide in her purposefully. She would need alcohol, something to loosen his tongue if she wanted to get anything from him.

How could she have possibly forgotten? Darcy’s been so engrossed with other things, with other people, that the Triwizard Tournament had slowly slipped from her mind, hidden in the deepest corners. Everything with Sirius, her relationship with Lupin, her shaky friendship with Emily and Carla. It still hurts, and Darcy’s sure it always will, but she’d privately known everything was going to change. She even misses Ron Weasley’s company sometimes, always good for a laugh and keeping awkward silences to a minimum. But everyone had decided to go their separate ways, and anyway, Darcy still has Gemma, Lupin, and Harry, and Hermione. And some days, that seems enough for her. But how long will she still have Harry for? Not long if Darcy doesn’t figure out what he’s up against.

She feels childish and stupid, looking out at the faces in the Great Hall. It’s not as if she didn’t see this coming—she had brought this on herself, had decided to be with Lupin and damn the consequences. Darcy wasn’t content to keep themselves shut up in a single room or in his home, she wanted to do things with him, to show him off, to walk down the streets with his arm around her. She had always known it would be brought to the public’s attention, a source of gossip for women like Aunt Petunia, who had to judge every single woman in the world by whatever rumors put out about them. But, what had Darcy truly expected? She thought, months ago, that Lupin would return to teach for another year, that they’d be able to see each other all the time—not that they would have held hands in the corridor or loved each other against the grimy walls, but people would have found out. People would have guessed. It would have been hard to keep it a secret, and even then Darcy would have had to face the stares, hear the whispers.

_There are more important things than what people think of me_ , she tells herself. The thought makes her more confident, and as breakfast ends, she walks ahead of Snape. Carla catches up with her, making Darcy smile.

“She really is a foul woman,” Carla begins, talking loudly so Darcy knows everyone around them can hear. “To publish lies about you and Harry.”

“Are they _truly_ lies?”

Darcy turns her head to find a seventh year Ravenclaw girl at her side, smiling. _Stacy_ , Darcy recalls. A girl who had never been unkind towards her in any of her classes. Her smile unsettles Darcy though, white teeth bared, dirty blonde hair framing her face. Behind her, listening carefully, are two others girls also heading to Potions—another Ravenclaw, Penny, with short, blonde hair that barely covers her ears; and a Slytherin girl, Amelia, with dark, frizzy hair that nearly reaches the top of her buttocks and a nose that reminds Darcy of a bird’s beak.

“Er—”

“I’m only curious,” Stacy continues breathlessly, giving her friends a haughty look before turning back to Darcy, clutching onto her arm. Darcy shrugs her off, holding onto Carla instead. “I mean—it’s all very exciting, isn’t it? Aren’t you afraid of him sometimes?”

“No, I’m not.” Darcy tries to hold her tongue, but the girls are still there, showing no intention of leaving. After all, they’re walking to the same classroom, and Darcy doesn’t know how much longer she can handle the hungry looks on their faces. “That’s not how it happened—what she wrote.”

“But you and Professor Lupin were close throughout the year, weren’t you? Come on, you can tell us.”

Anger and impatience flashes in Darcy’s eyes as her heart rate rises. _I have nothing to prove to these people_. I know the truth. She clears her throat. “Maybe I don’t want to discuss the details of my relationship with students,” she hisses, surprising Stacy and her friends. She blushes, but continues without hesitation. “Especially students who, only a few weeks ago, believed that I was the one who put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire.”

“We didn’t _really_ believe it,” Stacy mutters, but she grabs her friends by the arms and they rush ahead of Darcy and Carla towards Snape’s classroom.

Darcy’s chest is heaving as she looks to Carla. Carla’s eyes are wide, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. “Wow,” Carla chuckles, giving Darcy a sweet smile. “You really channeled your inner Snape there. Good for you. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Feeling slightly better, Darcy walks into the dungeon classroom with her shoulders back and her nose held high in the air, but the first part of the morning, Darcy is sure time has slowed. Carla’s Potions class brings up the article every time she gets close, and there are only two kinds of people—those who attempt to offer support by asking for details (Darcy knows she should at least feel half-grateful for their wary support, but the thought that they think themselves entitled to the truth angers her), and those who snicker quietly to their friends and make cruel jokes about Lupin. So distracted is the class that Snape tells them all to shut up about halfway through, promising a week of detentions for anyone who says one more word about Darcy or the article.

When Snape dismisses the class for lunch, Darcy waits until all the students have left before gathering her things. She does so slowly, chewing her lip. Snape watches her carefully, his black eyes fixed upon her so intently that she can feel the hole they burn in her head.

“Go on,” she murmurs, avoiding his eyes. “Say what you need to say. I probably deserve it after all I’ve said to you.” Darcy stands up straight, turning to look Snape in the eyes.

Snape sneers at her. “You’re a fool, Darcy, to believe anything good could come of this. You are a fool to believe anything he says to you. He is a danger, not only to you, but to everyone he comes in contact with—”

“Stop it,” Darcy growls, and Snape seems taken aback by her interruption. She takes advantage of the momentary silence to continue. “You can say whatever you want about me, but you have no right to insult him after what you did. It’s because of _you_ that Rita Skeeter and everyone like her knows he’s a werewolf.”

They both look at each other for a long time, jaws clenched, chests heaving.

“I think I’ll stay here for lunch,” she rasps, her rapid heartbeat echoing inside her head. “I don’t feel much like going to the Great Hall.” Darcy reaches inside of her bag for some ungraded essays and sits down at Snape’s desk, looking away from him.

“Don’t touch anything,” Snape snarls.

“I won’t.” Darcy waits until his back is turned before rolling her eyes and holds up her middle finger to his back as he leaves the classroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Darcy grades the essay perhaps a bit more harshly than she would if she were curled up on her sofa before a fire, drinking a glass of wine. They’re only second years, she tells herself, but their failure to distinguish the difference between two completely different potions irritates her. Her leg bounces beneath the desk, and after reading a particularly horrible essay, in which the handwriting is nearly illegible and the essay itself rushed and about three inches too short, Darcy gives it up and packs away her things again.

Checking her watch, Darcy grows impatient. She paces restlessly around the classroom, wondering if she should take a walk—maybe step out onto the grounds before lunch ends, just to get some fresh air. Surely the suffocating dungeon classroom isn’t doing her any good. But lunch is nearly over, and Snape likes to get back early. She sits back down in the chair, looking out over the empty classroom.

Darcy taps the desktop with her fingers, sighing loudly. It’s then that she starts to wonder if Snape still has the S.P.E.W. badge tucked away in his desk drawer. A clever, impish smile spreads across her face at the thought. Sure that he must still have it, Darcy opens the drawer slowly, her smile vanishing almost at once, as soon as she looks down inside. The badge is still tucked away in the corner of the drawer, but there are letters inside, as well—all unopened, around fifty or sixty of them. Darcy runs her fingers over them, flipping them all face up to see who they’re for. Every envelope is addressed in a different hand, sometimes in green or pink or purple ink. But that’s not the strangest thing—

They’re all addressed to me.

Every single one of the letters has ‘Darcy Potter’ written on it, followed by ‘Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’, in loopy handwriting and cramped handwriting, neat and messy. The envelopes are all different, too. Some are small and square, others large, the colors ranging from baby blue to deep crimson the color of blood. Some envelopes bear seals on them, others have been licked or taped shut.

Hesitating, Darcy glances towards the classroom door, her heart racing and her mouth dry. She checks her watch once more. There’s still time before lunch is over. Snape might not be bad for another fifteen minutes at least. Making the split second decision, Darcy pulls out one of the letters, tearing it open and unfolding the parchment within.

They're horrible letters, all of the ones she opens. They say hurtful things, accuse her of terrible things, call her disgusting names she’s never heard anyone call her in her life. Letters from parents of current students calling for her to leave Hogwarts, to leave their children alone (and a few mention the incident with the Goblet of Fire, as well), shaming her, insulting her—but that isn’t even the worst of it. The letters insult and degrade Lupin; pointlessly cruel, they write things about him that make Darcy sick to her stomach, outright lies and assumptions, suggestions as to what the Ministry should really do with such an untrustworthy and dangerous beast.

Darcy reads them with one hand over her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks and onto the parchment. Each one seems to get worse somehow, and when Darcy picks up a brand new one from the drawer, the classroom door opens quickly.

Snape freezes just inside the threshold, closing the door behind him, his eyes flicking from her face to the letters and back again. His face darkens, but Darcy doesn’t falter—she gets slowly to her feet, wiping her cheeks with her sleeves. “What is this?” she rasps, gesturing to the letters covering his desk. “These are my letters. Why do you have these?”

He doesn’t answer. He only looks at her, his expression unreadable. And when Darcy looks back at the letters, she suddenly remembers that not a single one had been opened. But he could have fixed them with magic, couldn’t he? Why didn’t he burn them? Throw them away? Darcy lifts her head again, her tears coming again. She sniffles, violently rubs at her watery eyes.

“I told you not to touch anything,” Snape croaks, and Darcy is glad to see him looking very uncomfortable.

“You took my letters.”

“And what did they say, Darcy?” Snape asks her, his tone harsh. “Kind things? Or have they forcibly reminded you exactly what your blessed boyfriend is? A monster—”

“He is no such thing,” Darcy cries softly. “And you know that. You knew what would be written in these letters, didn’t you?”

Snape hardly reacts, his lips pressed together. She can hear the footsteps of students echoing down the long corridor outside, laughter and shouting. Darcy wants to thank him for trying to keep her from these horrible letters and words, but the idea makes bile rise in her throat. How can she thank him when Snape holds these same views? After all that he’d said and done that night in the Shrieking Shack—after all the grief he’d given Lupin…

Is it so far fetched to say he’s jealous? Lupin had told her Snape was fond of her mother, had suggested Snape was good to Darcy because of that very reason. _My mother chose my father over Snape, and I chose Remus._ Snape had been good to her this year—better than he’s ever treated anyone before. Her stomach knots and her cheeks burn bright red and she wants to run away and throw up.

“I am not my mother,” Darcy whispers, as the sounds of students grow even closer. “I am not Lily.”

“No,” Snape answers very quietly, as students file inside the classroom. Snape still blocks the doorway, making it hard for them to pass. “You’re not.”

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, Ludo Bagman has always been one of my fav characters (I don’t know why) and I’m still bitter they cut him out of the movie. Unbelievable.

“Miss Potter! What a pleasant surprise!”

Darcy turns from the many post owls, her hair whipping her in the face. She puts on the biggest smile she can muster at the sight of him. “Mr. Bagman,” she says breathlessly. The wind snaps at her cloak, pulled tight around her. “Could you help me for a moment?”

Ludo hurries to her side, his blond hair disheveled from the wind, cheeks pink from the cold. Darcy gives him some letters to hold as she ties one at a time to separate owls. One for Lupin, detailing the odd situation with Snape and the letters and asking him to visit Hogsmeade this weekend; one for Mr. Weasley, telling him the article wasn’t true, begging for him and Mrs. Weasley to disregard it; and one for Emily, asking if she’d like to come to Hogsmeade on Saturday for lunch and catch up. Ludo waits patiently for her to finish and they watch as the owls take off.

“Thank you,” she smiles. To Ludo Bagman, her presence in Hogsmeade on a Tuesday evening may be a simple coincidence, but Darcy had made sure to make herself seen. She’d wandered outside the Three Broomsticks for a while, where people had seen her as they entered, whispering to each other. Darcy had hoped their whispers would carry all the way to Ludo’s ear, and sure enough, they had. Ludo Bagman had come strolling down the High Street with a purpose, grinning upon catching sight of her. “I’m glad you’re here. Might I buy you a drink?”

Ludo, still smiling, shakes his head. “Buy me a drink?” he says again, and Darcy nods eagerly, wrapping her hands around his thick bicep. “You truly are a girl after my own heart. Yes—yes, I’ll take you up on your offer, but if I may make a suggestion…” Ludo pulls her away from the direction of the Three Broomsticks and lowers his voice. “Rita Skeeter has been lurking in that damn place all day… Perhaps we could go to The Hog’s Head instead?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Have you been before?”

Darcy chuckles. “If I tell you something, you must never repeat it.”

“You have my word, darling.”

“It’s quite easy for underage students to get alcohol at The Hog’s Head.” Darcy slows her pace to keep in step with Ludo. “I may have frequented the place when I was younger, many moons ago.”

Ludo laughs heartily. “I do like you, Darcy.”

Five minutes later, seated at a tiny table in the back of The Hog’s Head, undisturbed and with two large pewter tankards set in front of them with odd tasting beer, Darcy traces the lip of her cup, watching Ludo glance about nervously. “I’m sorry for being short with you on Friday,” Darcy says carefully, his bright blue eyes snapping back to her face. “It had just been a long week for me.”

Sighing heavily, Ludo tries to flatten his hair. “I never should have brought you there, and I am very sorry,” he tells her. Darcy takes a long drink from her cup, taking a perverted sense of satisfaction from his apology. It makes her feel good to hear the words, to know that Ludo knows he’s done wrong. “That article was—cruel and self-indulgent and a terrible, terrible breach of your privacy.”

Darcy remembers the awful things people had written to her about Lupin, and she takes a deep breath. “Surely you don’t believe there’s much truth to it?” she asks, frowning slightly.

“Darcy, I’m not interested in petty gossip,” Ludo scoffs. “I know for a fact you didn’t talk to Rita Skeeter, and even if it was true, it’s no business of mine.”

She feels a great rush of affection for Ludo in that moment. “If that’s truly how you feel, you must be one of my very few friends here.” Darcy had meant to cut straight to the chase—to ask about Harry, about what he can do, about what he can tell her regarding the first task. But now there’s something else she wants to know that’s pressing on her. “Mr. Bagman, we _are_ friends, aren’t we?”

Ludo smiles genially, seemingly touched by her question. He drinks slowly from his cup and sets it back down before answering. “Of course we’re friends.”

“Why?”

“Why?” His brow furrows and the smile fades very slowly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve taken a liking to me.”

“I have.”

“Why?”

He pauses, thinking for a moment. Ludo’s face is very serious, something that doesn’t suit him well. Darcy much prefers him smiling or laughing. “You’re likeable, Darcy. You’re a good girl.”

Darcy drinks, long and deep. The candle burning in the center of the table flickers, wax spilling the tabletop. “I’m worried for my brother,” she says quietly. “He’s so nervous about the first task. He’s only a boy, Mr. Bagman. Fourteen.”

Ludo nods, lifting a hand to flag down a passing server. Within moments, their cups are filled to the brim again. He drinks, and when he sets his cup down again, he’s smiling. Darcy smiles back at him. “It’ll be a real surprise,” he promises, but this only makes Darcy feel worse. “You and everyone else are in for a real treat. It took us a long to secure—well, what we need for the first task. You understand, of course—top secret.”

“I understand,” Darcy replies, looking put out. “I had just hoped you might—give me a hint, or something. Just to ease my fears.”

He clears his throat, looking down at the table, as if looking Darcy in the eyes means certain death. “I shouldn’t, Darcy,” he laughs nervously. “Everything will be fine.”

“A friend comforting another friend, Mr. Bagman,” she urges, lowering her voice. “I have nightmares when I sleep, you know. And worrying about the first task gives me such restless sleep.”

“Now, don’t you do that with me!” Ludo retorts, suddenly angry. His demeanor changes quickly, as if he’s realized what he’s said, and Darcy hides her surprise. Ludo sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. His tone becomes gentler, but his words are still rough. “Someone played this same game with me years ago, on a much larger scale, and I’ll admit I was a fool then. But do not think you can charm some top secret information out of me, Darcy. I am not such a fool now.”

“Wh—?” Darcy stammers, unsure of how to react this ominous admission. “What do you mean on a ‘much larger scale’?”

Ludo’s eyes flash with impatience. “Never you mind.” He sighs again and drains near half his cup, smacking his lips. “Perhaps you aren’t as naive as the Minister thinks you are, however.”

“I’m sorry?” Darcy’s heart begins to race. The conversation has taken a turn she hadn’t anticipated. She’s baffled by his statement, unsure of where he could possibly be going with this.

For a moment, Ludo reminds Darcy slightly of Mr. Weasley, eager to tell her more, but knowing he shouldn’t. Darcy leans in over the table and Ludo mimics her. “Strictly between us,” he whispers, his voice near drowned by the other patrons’ conversations. “A friend confiding in another friend.”

“Of course.”

“It’s no secret that Fudge doesn’t have the support he once did—not that he was beloved by all, of course—with all that has transpired over the years. The ordeal with the Chamber of Secrets and Sirius Black escaping Azkaban—escaping from under Fudge’s nose, and the events that played out at the Quidditch World Cup. People are growing—restless.”

“Restless?”

“They want the Ministry to do more.”

“Are they afraid?” Darcy asks, feeling her heart leaping into her throat. She instinctively leans closer, eyes wide.

“Wary, I’d say. On edge. After the appearance of the Dark Mark at the World Cup, well—you see how that would strike people as odd.”

“You told me it was an isolated incident,” Darcy recalls. “The night the other schools arrived.”

“I told you that the Ministry considers it an isolated incident.”

Darcy takes in these words for a moment. Ludo watches her think, waiting for her to understand his meaning. “So they want the Ministry to take certain precautions,” Darcy mutters. “Because they fear another incident. But I don’t understand, Mr. Bagman. What does this have to do with me?”

“I’ve heard rumors, nothing more,” he says quickly, cupping both of his hands around his tankard. His face is close enough to hers that Darcy can smell the beer on his breath. “Rumors that Fudge was looking to seek you out—to convince you to speak for the Ministry. You see the appeal—the older sister of The Boy Who Lived, young and beautiful and well spoken. A voice to raise morale during these strange times. Fudge thinks you naive, and therefore thinks it will be an easy task to convince me.”

She doesn’t expect these words to make her so angry, but they do. Darcy scowls. “I will not stand beside Fudge and bleat like a sheep,” she hisses, sitting back in her chair. “I am not a thing to be used.”

“No, clearly you’re not.” Ludo relaxes, smiling again. He raises his cup to her in a toast. “You are well aware of who you are, aren’t you, my dear? You understand the weight your words have.”

Darcy hesitates. “I’m slowly learning.”

“Better to learn slow than to not learn at all. Fudge thinks years of being sheltered with Muggles has left you innocent and unaware. But thanks to Rita Skeeter, I think Fudge might be a bit more hesitant to bring the idea to you now.”

“What?”

“You’re involved with a werewolf. Don’t think that won’t hang over your head wherever you go, whatever you decide to do.”

“A small price to pay for the happiness he brings me,” Darcy says flatly, firmly— _confidently_. She sits up straighter in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “And to be spared having to speak on behalf of the Ministry. Fudge wouldn’t listen to what I had to say about Sirius. He didn’t give a damn that Hagrid didn’t open the Chamber of Secrets. Why should I trust him?”

“Think of the power you would have,” Ludo continues, a manic gleam in his blue eyes. Darcy thinks he looks slightly crazed, madder than she’s ever seen him. “You’d be the face of the Ministry, a prettier face than Fudge’s. Think of the things you could do—the things you could achieve. You could finally make something of yourself.”

Darcy shakes her head, scoffing, understanding. “Say that I do just that,” she says bitterly. “Say that I am the face of the Ministry, reassuring these people by allowing Fudge to speak through me. Where would that leave you, Mr. Bagman, my friend? What would you want from me?”

“W—want?” Ludo falters. “I wouldn’t ask anything of you, my dear, darling Darcy. We’re friends.”

“Everyone wants something from me. My money, my favor, my _friendship_.” She pauses, watching Ludo’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. “What do you want from me, Ludo? Why have you taken a liking to me? So you can help take credit for my rise to power?”

Ludo doesn’t have an answer for her. He opens and closes his mouth stupidly.

“I could have gone into the Ministry if I wanted to,” Darcy says, stony faced. “Not because of who I am, or rather—who my brother is, but because I worked hard. Had I gone into the Ministry, I would have _earned_ it. But I chose to stay here, at Hogwarts, because I love my little brother more than anything in the world. I love Harry more than I have ever loved myself. Do you know what that’s like?”

“No,” Ludo answers finally. “I suppose not.”

They look at each other hard while a server refills their tankards. Darcy thanks her softly, waving her away. “Power, money, fame—those things mean nothing to me, and I have no desire for them.” She inhales, takes a sip of beer, and shifts in her seat. “I’ve learned there are far more important things in this world, and if you think I would sacrifice my happiness for any of those things, then you don’t know me at all.”

Darcy stands, partly disgusted with herself and partly with Ludo Bagman. His eyes follow her as she sweeps her hair out of her face, fastening her cloak back over her shoulders. She reaches into her pockets, fingers wrapping around some coins, and she tosses them onto the table.

When the door shuts behind her and Darcy is once again engulfed by bitter winds and the stars light the path of the High Street, she laughs. She laughs outloud as she walks back towards Hogwarts, feeling a kind of way she’s never felt before—powerful, maybe. Powerful and commanding— _if only Emily could have seen me_ , she thinks. _I no longer need her to stand up for me, to speak on my behalf._

Darcy starts up the sloping yard, the lights still on inside Hogwarts, promising warmth and comfort. She whistles a song she’d once heard many years ago, and it carries across the grounds, a beautiful tune for a beautiful night.

* * *

Darcy sends Max off with another letter for Lupin, giving him an extremely and unnecessarily detailed account of she and Ludo’s conversation, and feeling bold, Darcy writes things that make her cheeks red, things she certainly wouldn’t be brave enough to say to his face. She can imagine Lupin reading the letter, smiling at her words, laughing to himself, shaking his head as if to say— _this girl is mine._

And so Darcy blows through the rest of the week, eagerly awaiting Friday, yet dreading the coming Tuesday. Things get easier with the amount of pleasant surprises, and Darcy smiles easier during the rest of the week, laughs easier, and jokes often.

Wednesday morning, while visiting Gemma in the hospital wing during breakfast, a second year boy enters with bright red cheeks, carrying a bouquet of white lilies, freshly picked and smelling delightful. He gives them to Darcy before running out of the hospital wing. There’s only a small note, one that Darcy discards almost immediately after reading it. _Come find me for the drink the next time you are in Hogsmeade - Ludo._ The flowers are extraordinary, and make Darcy feel as if her mother is close by, as if Lily is lingering just out of sight. Gemma teases her about them—after all, the conversation between she and Ludo had been the first thing Darcy told her about.

“Wait until he hears you’re spoken for, Darcy,” Gemma cackles, smelling the lilies. “He’ll die of a broken heart, especially knowing that you’ve been claimed by a werewolf.”

“If you have nothing nice to say, then don’t say anything at all, Smythe. And who are these from?” Madam Pomfrey asks brisky, stopping in front of the cot they’re sitting on. She gives them both a quick glare, eyebrows raised, before her eyes fall upon the lilies.

“Ludo Bagman,” Darcy replies sheepishly. “You can keep them if you like. I think it’s good manners to decline flowers from men you aren’t involved with.”

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” Madam Pomfrey smiles wistfully, taking the lilies from Darcy’s hands and finding a spot for them on a sunny windowsill. “They’ll make the room a bit more lively, I think.”

Darcy smiles at the matron’s back. “I’m glad I could help.”

Thursday brings the return of two letters at breakfast—Lupin promises to arrive Friday to talk further about Snape, Ludo Bagman, and the first task, and also including a post-script, describing in vivid detail a number of things he’d like to do to her once he arrives. Darcy’s entire face flushes, and Snape gives her a curious and disdainful look before returning to his breakfast. With her heart racing and adrenaline coursing through her, Darcy folds the letter up and puts it away quickly. She also receives a letter from Emily, who agrees happily to visit Hogsmeade on Saturday, letting on that she has some information she’s eager to share with them. The knowledge that Emily is so excited to visit lights a fire in Darcy.

That afternoon, as lunch comes to an end, Harry drops a bombshell. He, Darcy, and Hermione linger in the freezing courtyard alone, and he admits that Sirius is somehow going to speak on Saturday night at one in the morning. As anxious as she is to see Sirius again, and unsure as to how he’ll even be able to have a proper conversation with them while they’re at Hogwarts, Darcy can’t deny that she’d like to see his face again—in fact, she’d _love_ to see him again, to explain herself, to apologize for blaming him for things beyond his control.

“You can use the cloak,” Harry smiles, and Darcy nods eagerly. “We’ll make sure the common room is clear around that time, and no one will be any the wiser.”

Friday morning, Darcy realizes that Hagrid won’t meet her eyes, nor will he speak to her for longer than he absolutely has to. Hermione promises Darcy she’ll talk to Hagrid about it—that he shouldn’t put stock into such silly rumors written by Rita Skeeter. Darcy hugs her for that, and just the small gesture of thanks makes Darcy warm, a warmth that goes bone deep. She is impervious to the whispers and the stares, thinking only of the end of the day, thinking only of the walk down to Hogsmeade and the feeling of Lupin’s lips on her cheek, kissing her by way of greeting.

His room is a different one than usual this time. Madam Rosmerta had insisted that, if he wanted a room for a weekend, he’d have to reserve one at least a week in advance. Lupin had only laughed, made Madam Rosmerta sigh exasperatedly, and she had given him the smallest room at the end of the upstairs corridor, the single bay window overlooking the Forbidden Forest, golden and blood red in the setting sun. However, the room is not as spectacular as the gilded trees of the forest—it’s dusty and smells slightly of mildew, and with the fire going, it’s stifling.

Lupin wastes no time in making good on the promises he’d made in his letter, and clothes are soon quickly shed. Their skin sticks together and shines in the glow of the fire, and Darcy has to keep combing Lupin’s soaking wet hair out of his face. After Darcy’s red hair starts to stick to her shoulders, neck, and back, Lupin extinguishes the fire, only to find that without it, the room is freezing. He grows angry at this, frustrated, but Darcy can’t help but laugh. She wraps an arm around his slick neck, starts another fire in the hearth and throws open the bay window.

“They’ll hear us,” he murmurs, leaving wet kisses across her collarbones.

“Then be quiet,” she whispers back, relishing the feel of the cold breeze on her back.

She has a good view of the High Street through the large window as he pounds into her from behind. Though the sun has set now, the village isn’t going to sleep yet—lights are still on inside the windows of shops and upper floors of homes; people are still out in the street, wandering and laughing, their voices echoing around the tiny room. The breeze blows on her face, making the tip of her nose red and cold and numb. She keeps her ragged panting quiet, Lupin’s face buried in her shoulder, his chest heaving and heart racing against her back, but there is no disguising the soft moans that slip from both of their mouths without warning, the rhythmic creaking of the bed with each stroke, the violent slapping of skin on skin. It excites her to know that people on the street may be hearing them—hearing the sounds of two people utterly in love.

Darcy closes her eyes, her core aching, lightheaded and overwhelmed with love. His pace becomes irregular and she throws her head back, allowing him to tangle his fingers in her auburn hair, tugging sharply. She opens her mouth, crying out, and then she sees it—just beyond the outskirts of the forest—in the Forbidden Forest. Fire—flames licking at the dark night sky, high above the trees, and then it’s gone.

“Remus—!” Darcy gasps, watching it disappear. The flames shoot up above the treetops again. She looks frantically for a sign of a fire, for smoldering leaves or smoke, but Lupin pulls her hair again, craning her head back so she can’t see well out of the window. “There’s something out there—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he pants, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Don’t—”

He thrusts into her sharply a few more times before sighing heavily and stopping, staying completely still for a few seconds. Lupin releases his grip on her hair, and Darcy looks out the window again, completely distracted. Pulling out of her, Lupin moves to clean up, and the flames shoot towards the sky again. “There!” she shrieks, pointing and looking back at Lupin. “Did you see it?”

Lupin’s standing stock still, white as if he’s just seen a ghost. He tilts his head, taking another step towards the window. “Yes, I saw it.”

“What is it?” Darcy asks, sitting up and catching her shirt as Lupin throws it to her.

“Get dressed. Quickly.”

Darcy hesitates, but does as she’s told. Once they’re fully dressed again and bundled up, Lupin takes Darcy’s hand and pulls her down into the common room of the Three Broomsticks. He pulls her down the High Street, moving quicker than she’s ever seen him move, and then—

“Darcy!”

Darcy stops in her tracks, the voice vaguely familiar. Lupin stumbles, releasing her hand and turning around towards the source of the voice. Trying to catch her breath, Darcy sees a red-headed figure walking quickly towards them, and she smiles wide. “Charlie?”

They both move towards each other, and Darcy throws her arms around his neck. Charlie’s arms are thick as tree trunks wrapped around her waist, and he lifts her off the ground. “It’s so good to see you,” he gasps, lowering her to the ground and holding her out at arms length to inspect her. “How are you? How are you feeling? This must all be so difficult for you.”

“I’m fine,” Darcy laughs weakly. “Much better than the last time you saw me.”

“You look great,” Charlie smiles. “You look—”

Lupin clears his throat and Charlie’s eyes flick over Darcy’s shoulder at him. He lowers his hands from Darcy’s arms, his ears turning slightly red in the yellow light from the shop windows. Darcy gives Lupin a small smile. “Sorry, er—Charlie, this is Remus Lupin. Remus, Charlie Weasley.”

“Good to meet you, Remus,” Charlie says, shaking Lupin’s hand firmly. “Anyway, where are the two of you rushing off to?”

“We saw—I don’t know, like—fire in the Forbidden Forest. Did you see it, as well?”

Charlie suddenly looks sheepish. He glances around and grabs Darcy’s upper arm again, pushing her gently down the street to keep her moving. Lupin drapes his arm around her shoulders, holding her close to him, and Charlie lets go of her again. When the three of them reach the end of the High Street, Lupin asks, “What’s out there?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Charlie sighs.

Darcy is able to get a much better look at Charlie now, the lighting a bit better. There’s a mean burn on his forehead, partially obscured by his bright red hair, but she can tell that it’s recent, and Darcy’s heart begins to hammer inside her chest. “Charlie,” she whispers. “Is it dragons? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Charlie pauses, but finally nods, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it’s dragons. Do you want to see?”

“The first task is _dragons_?” Darcy hisses, breathing very fast and very hard. “ _Dragons_?” She spins on her heel to face Lupin, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, hysterical. “ _Dragons_?”

“They’re only dragons,” Charlie interrupts, grabbing Darcy’s attention again, “and with us here keeping a close eye on them—”

“Are you _mad_?” Darcy shrieks, giving Charlie a shove. He barely moves, sturdy and steady on his face. “The Ministry has allowed dragons to be a part of the Triwizard Tournament? This is insane—Charlie, Harry has to know—”

“If anyone finds out that I’ve told you—”

“He’s a boy, Charlie!” Darcy cries, fear gripping her heart. She punches him hard in the shoulder, and then again, and again and again, until Charlie cries out and Lupin wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her away. Darcy fights against his grip, wiping angry tears from her eyes. “He’s only a boy! He should never have been involved in this in the first place!”

“What do you want me to do, Darcy?” Charlie replies, not unkindly, rubbing his shoulder. “Tell them to cancel the Tournament?”

“Let go of me, Remus!”

“Stop it, Darcy—stop!” Lupin says in her ear, fighting to hold onto her. “Just leave him.”

Darcy ignores him, pointing a threatening finger at Charlie. “Does your father know about this?” she asks harshly. “Does he?”

“Yes, of course he knows about it—”

“ _Oh_ —!” Darcy growls, squirming in Lupin’s arms. “Charlie Weasley, you—!”

“All right, listen,” Charlie tells her, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll—I’ll try to help—I’ll talk to Hagrid—”

Red in the face, Darcy shakes Lupin off her, fixing her hair and brushing it out of her face. She takes a few steps closer to Charlie, almost nose to nose with him, and she jabs her index finger into his chest. “If anything happens to Harry—”

“He’ll be fine, I swear it.”

Clenching her jaw, Darcy turns back to Lupin. He looks down at her, eyebrows raised. Before leaving, Darcy punches Charlie’s arm one more time.

“Ouch! That hurts, you know!”

“Shut up,” Darcy snarls, trying to calm her breathing. Huffing, she shoots Lupin a sharp look. “Are you going to buy me a drink?”

“If that’s what you’d like.”

She nods, letting Lupin’s arm settle around her shoulders again. He kisses the top of her head, and as they start back towards the Three Broomsticks, Charlie rushes off towards the Forbidden Forest. “ _Dragons_ ,” she grumbles. “Can you believe that? _Dragons_.”

“Maybe I can help clear your head,” he purrs softly to her. “Come back upstairs—come to bed with me.”

“Not before I’ve had a drink, or ten.” Darcy enters the Three Broomsticks and slides into a seat at the bar. “You know what?” Lupin sits beside her, flagging down Madam Rosmerta. “Don’t bring me back upstairs until I’m completely incoherent. I want no memory of this night when I wake up in the morning.”

Lupin smiles at her.

When Darcy finally has her first drink in hand, she watches him drain his cup from over the rim of her own. She grins, her nerves still jangling. “You were _so_ jealous back there.”

“Me?” Lupin scoffs, clearing his throat. “No, not jealous.”

Darcy glances around the common room, noticing eyes fixated on their backs. It makes her uneasy, remembering all that had been said about them in the _Prophet_. She turns back around in her seat, looking down into her cup. “Everyone is looking at us.”

“Likely admiring your bravery for showing your face in public with me.” His words are incredibly bitter, but there’s a slight smile still on his face.

Darcy looks at him for a long time, admires the sharp angle of his jaw, the way he grinds it. His beard has grown in, flecked with gray, just like his shaggy hair. “Remus?”

“Hm?” He looks at her again while Madam Rosmerta refills his cup.

Looking around the room once more, Darcy turns back towards him, leaning forward to kiss him softly, her hand upon his cheek. When she pulls away, she sees a faint blush appear on his cheekbones.

“What was that for?” he asks her, giving her a goofy, toothy smile.

“Maybe we could take a bottle upstairs instead?”

Lupin hastily waves Madam Rosmerta back again, already sliding off his chair and reaching into his pocket, hurriedly pulling out money. But when he speaks, his voice is slow, cool, and confident. “I think I’d like that very much.”

 


	33. Chapter 33

The sunlight burns bright on her closed eyelids, making her entire head throb painfully. The clamor downstairs seems louder than normal—Madam Rosmerta and her employers likely setting up to open for the day. The morning breeze flows through the window, setting goosebumps to her bare flesh. Between her thighs is sore, her mouth impossibly dry. Against her back, the steady drumming of Lupin’s heartbeat, his arm draped around her, his hand cupping one of her breasts loosely. His breath is hot against the back of her neck, his lips barely brushing against the skin there.

Darcy smiles. A dream she had once thought so far away, unattainable, now come to life. A lifetime ago, Darcy had looked down on him in his bed at Hogwarts, wishing she could curl up in his arms and stay there. Even now, she wants to stay here forever—waking up beside him is something out of one of her best dreams, a happiness she never thought herself deserving of—a happiness she’d never thought she’d have the privilege of achieving.

The singing birds infuriate Darcy and make her head pound even more and she tries to piece together the previous night. They’d run into Charlie, found out about the dragons. She’d been furious, but after bringing two bottles back up to the room and after they had started drinking, Darcy had loosened up. Lupin had made her _laugh_ , a delightful sound that seemed so foreign to her—a laughter that wasn’t forced or stiff. There had been shy smiles that, with more and more drink in them, had turned into coy and flirtatious smiles, silent invitations to touch each other, as if for the first time. Two people who craved affection, desperately in want of love, drunk on firewhisky and sloppy kisses. Lupin’s fingers had grazed against the line of her jaw—always touching her face, always with the gentlest touch Darcy has ever known.

“To remind myself it’s all real,” Lupin had told her, almost as if he’d read her thoughts. He’d placed a finger on her chin, kissing her on the forehead, on the tip of her nose, on her lips.

She remembers looking into his eyes then, remembering the things she’d read people say about him. Not that she’d told him—Darcy will never divulge him the contents of those letters. But she’d had a feeling then, sitting cross legged before him, looking at him so intently, that Lupin already knew what was written about him in those letters. Darcy had reached out for his hand, laced their fingers together, and squeezed gently.

They drank and they drank and they drank, until the fire had started to flicker out, and the room had gotten cold again. Darcy remembers how bold the both of them had grown with the amount of alcohol in them; she had touched him over his clothes until Lupin told her to take her own clothes off—a request she happily indulged him. He’d called her _kitten_ , something she will never tire of hearing, that always sets her stomach to fluttering madly. She’s sure that if Lupin asked her to kill for him and called her by that name, she wouldn’t be able to refuse him.

Darcy had stood up and took a few steps back, slowly undressing herself as he watched from the floor, drinking from his cup. Despite the fact he’s seen her naked many, many times, Darcy still blushed when his eyes traveled down her body, down her legs, and back up again. Maybe she’d inherited her mother’s hair, her eyes, and a few other small quirks—but her body is her father’s in truth, tall and lanky, gawky and awkward.

“You are so beautiful,” Lupin had whispered to her, setting his cup down on the table beside him. He got to his feet then, holding out his hands for hers. “Come here.” He’d let her pull his sweater over his head, kissed her, lifted her into his arms, eased her down onto the bed.

Darcy sighs happily at the memory, taking his hand from her breast and lowering it to the heat between her legs.

“Hey—some guy is downstairs looking for you. Red hair, freckles, muscles.”

Darcy jumps, releasing her light grip on Lupin’s hand, and she can feel him move behind her, pulling his hand away from Darcy and struggling to pull the blankets up to his chin. “Gemma, you can’t just come in here as you please,” Lupin snarls. “Get out of here. _Go_.”

“Like I’ve never seen Darcy naked before,” Gemma scoffs, picking up a discarded glass on the coffee table and filling it full of firewhisky.

Darcy hesitates, lifting her head up to look at Gemma, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve never seen me naked.”

“Only partly true,” Gemma continues, swirling her firewhisky. “Sixth year, prefects bathroom, we were all drunk—you took your bra off to prove you had tits after Emily insisted you had none.”

Darcy flushes. _Not my finest moment._ But then again, she had been seventeen, incredibly drunk, and extremely offended. “In my defense, I was still reeling after successfully killing a basilisk,” she snaps. “How many basilisks have you killed, Gemma?”

“None, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. Get up and get dressed.” Gemma takes a sip of her drink and sets it back down, heading back through the door and closing it behind her.

Lupin looks at Darcy with the most serious look she’s ever seen on him. “She can’t just walk in here like that,” he snaps. “This is why I like it much better when you come to me. Gemma’s always skulking around here somewhere, but at least I don’t have to worry about someone stealing into my own home.”

Darcy sighs, rolling out of bed, looking through her bag for new clothes. Lupin watches her wriggle into a pair of underwear.

“Did you know,” he begins again, eyes still fixed on her, “I was rummaging around in my dresser just yesterday when I realized—I have a terribly large collection of your clothes.”

She pulls a sweater on, combing her hair with her fingers, shrugging casually—or attempting to shrug casually. “They’re just my emergency outfits,” Darcy says shyly, turning away from him to pull on her pants. “That’s all. Just in case.”

“Your emergency outfits?” Lupin laughs. Darcy turns back around, if only to catch a glimpse of his smile. It makes her blush furiously. “And what of the two pairs of shoes, the couple of books sitting on my bedside table, and the bottles of perfume that are still on my bathroom sink?”

“I must have just—forgotten them there,” Darcy snaps, pulling up her pants and snatching up her shoes. “I’ll get them next time. Remind me.”

“I don’t mind,” Lupin replies. “I don’t mind at all, I just—” He hesitates, sitting up and inhaling deeply. Instead of finishing his thought, Lupin only smiles at her.

Darcy wraps her arms around herself, looking down at him from the foot of the bed. “Are you coming?”

His soft smile still hasn’t faded. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

When Darcy makes her way down to the common room of The Three Broomsticks, Gemma and Charlie are already seated at a table, talking over steaming cups of coffee. A few people have already wandered inside for a hot meal, a break from the biting cold. Darcy seats herself at Gemma’s side, Charlie across from them.

“Morning,” Charlie murmurs, glancing around him. No one really pays them much mind. Darcy leans in towards Charlie to hear what it is he needs to say. “Maybe we could step outside? I’ve heard Rita Skeeter has been a frequent patron lately. I would hate for her to be skulking about somewhere.”

Darcy looks at Gemma quickly. Gemma nods, offering her a smile. Turning back to Charlie, Darcy gets to her feet. “Sure.”

The grass is covered with frost outside, the cold instantly making the tip of her nose red. Charlie’s face turns bright red, and the two of them make their way down the High Street, turning onto a less busy one and slowing their pace. “I spoke with Hagrid last night. Seems he already had it in his mind to tell Harry anyway,” Charlie says, almost chuckling, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Hagrid will… help Harry along tonight, and you won’t have to do it yourself.”

She looks at him, stunned. For a moment, she could kiss him. “Thank you,” she replies, all she’s able to say.

“I still think you’re worrying too much,” he insists, making Darcy frown. “You don’t think they’ll have to fight a dragon to the death, do you?” He tilts his head back and laughs. “They’ve brought experts in to make sure the dragon don’t get too out of control. Don’t worry about it.”

“Shut up,” Darcy retorts hotly, but she softens at the sight of his smile. Charlie continues to chuckle until it’s silent again, and they turn up another sidestreet. “How’s your dad? Have you seen him lately?”

“Just yesterday I dropped in,” Charlie says, very grave. He gives Darcy a sideways look. “He’s worried about you. He’s been worried since the scene at the World Cup.”

Darcy looks away bashfully. “He’s read the article, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Charlie admits. “Mum started crying when she read it, and dad was—well, he mentioned he’d met Remus, and promised mum he wouldn’t do you any harm.” He pauses for a moment, turning very slightly to face Darcy. “Mum wanted dad to talk to you about it, and that’s when dad told her that you aren’t their daughter, and they have no say over anything you do.”

There’s a sharp pain in her chest—surely her own heart breaking. _I am not their daughter, and Mr. Weasley is not my father_. She wonders for a moment what Sirius has to say about the article—he’d left Lupin’s quick enough the morning it was featured in the paper. That’s when she remembers— _I’m going to talk to him tonight!_

Charlie rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat. “Mum told me that—well, she’s just having a laugh, really. But she told dad if you absolutely had to marry someone, she’d be happy to have you marry me.”

Darcy flushes, but Charlie only laughs. “Oh—I’m not—” Darcy’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, and she wishes she was back in bed with Lupin already, far away from this conversation. “Remus and I aren’t getting married,” she adds quickly, giving Charlie a weak smile. “I’m not—I mean, you’re very sweet and—”

“I’m not asking you to marry me, Darcy, believe me,” Charlie jokes. “You know how mum is—she’s old-fashioned.”

“Right,” Darcy says shortly, anger suddenly rising in her. “She believes pretty young girls shouldn’t marry werewolves, I’m sure.”

“No! Of course she doesn’t think that!” Charlie protests, not unkindly. He seems to have realized his mistake and attempts to backtrack, but it only makes Darcy feel worse. “You know mum isn’t prejudiced, it’s just—the entire situation—you know, Ginny isn’t exactly old enough to date and—she doesn’t have another daughter to fawn over, and—”

“They said such horrible things, Charlie,” Darcy blurts out in a low voice, her heart racing. “They said awful things about him. I didn’t think people could be so cruel—one woman said he should be put down, as if he’s an animal!”

Charlie scrunches his nose. “Listen, Darcy—you do understand what you’re getting yourself into, don’t you? You understand—what he is?”

Darcy rages then, clenching her jaw. A few villagers pass them on the street, and Darcy tries to calm herself. “I know what he’s capable of, if that’s what you’re getting at.” When the street is clear of villagers, Darcy unfastens her cloak and pulls aside the collar of her sweater to reveal the grotesque scars on her left shoulder. Charlie looks at them for a long time being forcing himself to look away. “What would your mother do if she knew I had these?” She quickly hides them again, fixing her cloak.

“Dad wouldn’t be happy, I’d imagine.”

“He’s not my father.”

“Do you trust this man, Darcy?”

“Of course.” She says it without hesitation, without a single shred of doubt. Always remembering the ruin he’d left her shoulder that night, but he hadn’t been himself—Lupin’s touch is a blessing, never harmful, never less than gentle and loving.

“Good enough.” Charlie sighs heavily, pulling Darcy down yet another sidestreet. “Anyway, dad isn’t as concerned over who you’re dating. He’s more wary of your friendship with Ludo Bagman, if that’s what it is.”

“Why?” Darcy asks quickly, suddenly curious. “What has he said? Is there something I should know about?”

“Dad says he’s an opportunist,” he continues, the wind ruffling his ginger hair. Up close and in the sunlight, Darcy can see the extraordinary amount of light freckles splattered all over his face. She can’t help but think he looks very much like Ron, more so than the rest of his family. Charlie looks her over once, his eyes sweeping up and down her lazily. “Anything for more fame, for more power. Including taking young girls under his wing in order to—groom them, I think were dad’s words. I don’t know that Ludo is inherently a bad man—in fact, I’ve found him rather amusing. He can be funny at times. But you and he are certainly on opposite ends of the spectrum, and dad knows it. Ludo talks very highly of you at the Ministry. Just watch what you say to him, all right?”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Dad would’ve,” Charlie shrugs. “Wouldn’t he?”

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Can we go back now? It’s cold.”

Upon returning to the High Street (they’d walked a lot further than Darcy had thought), she finds it much more crowded than it had been. Students have finally begun to filter down from the castle, huddling in front of shop fronts or else arm in arm with friends, laughing.

Charlie bids her goodbye outside The Three Broomsticks, promising to talk on Tuesday. Darcy enters alone and is quite glad to find Gemma and Lupin seated in a booth against the wall, with Hermione in a chair across from them, rifling through some papers and talking excitedly. There’s a slight scowl on Gemma’s face as Hermione talks, and Darcy smiles—she feels as if she knows exactly what the subject of conversation is.

Darcy reaches for the empty chair beside Hermione. “I’m here!” Harry’s voice hisses at her, and Darcy stumbles backwards, heart racing at such a surprise.

Gemma laughs loudest of all, and Darcy throws her a dark look. “A little warning would be nice next time,” she snaps at everyone, seating herself in the booth beside Lupin. “Before I have a damn heart attack. Hermione, are you frightening everyone with S.P.E.W.?”

“Well, I thought—I mean, Professor Lupin’s interested, aren’t you?” Hermione looks at him expectantly, and Lupin raises his eyebrows, looking at Darcy accusingly.

Gemma pushes a cup of coffee across Lupin to Darcy. “You just missed Rita Skeeter,” Gemma says. “Likely looking for one of those exciting Potter siblings.”

“Did she see you?” Darcy asks, giving Lupin an apologetic look.

“I don’t think she knew us,” Gemma answers. “She didn’t linger long.”

After Darcy and Harry bicker in whispers across the table for a few minutes about him taking off the Invisibility Cloak, Harry finally tells them that Hagrid and Mad Eye. “He could see me with his eye under the cloak,” Harry says. Darcy looks at the place where she thinks his eyes are, but it’s still very odd.

“Was he drinking from his flask?” Darcy asks, wondering why he’d even make the journey to Hogsmeade from the castle if he wasn’t going to drink anything other than his own drink. Darcy had asked Snape about the flask at dinner one night. Snape had told her that Mad Eye Moody was paranoid and trusted no one. Darcy remembers wishing she could drink her way through classes—some days were like that.

“Yeah. He always does.” Harry pauses. “And Hagrid said to meet him at midnight with the Invisibility Cloak.”

“You don’t know why, do you?” Hermione says, looking hopefully towards Darcy. “Has he said anything to you?”

Darcy can feel Lupin staring at her, but she keeps focused on Hermione. She raises her eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders. “No,” she lies. “But what if you’re late for Sirius? And I need the Invisibility Cloak to get into Gryffindor Tower.”

“I’m sure whatever Hagrid wants to see me for us important,” Harry replies angrily, and Darcy wishes he would take that stupid cloak off so she could actually look at him. She’s sure that Harry wouldn’t be so bold if she was able to see his face. “Besides, you saw Sirius without me already.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just exclude me from this,” Darcy scoffs. “I would have brought you along if I could have, and I didn’t know he was going to be there.”

“Hold on—you’re meeting with Sirius?” Lupin interrupts, looking from Darcy to Harry’s chair to Darcy again. “You didn’t tell me this. Sirius is coming to Hogwarts?”

“We don’t know what he’s going to do,” Darcy explains. “I must have forgotten to mention it—I don’t know, he just said to be alone in Gryffindor Tower at one o’clock tonight.”

Lupin narrows his eyes at her. “You need to be careful,” he tells them all. “With Moody teaching Defense, and Ministry workers in and out of Hogwarts, it will be hard for Sirius to come and go here as he pleases without being noticed.”

“He got into Hogwarts when dementors surrounded us.” Darcy looks to Gemma for support, but she offers none, only listening vaguely, scanning the faces of the other patrons. “I highly doubt that Sirius would just walk into Gryffindor Tower.”

Harry’s chair creaks. “What if he just—Apparated right into the common room? I mean, no one would—”

Darcy, Hermione, Lupin, and Gemma all speak at the same time. “You can’t Apparate into Hogwarts.”

Carla joins them a short time later, her dark hair braided expertly. She tells them that’s what held her up, and she pulls a seat up between Gemma and the empty chair that is Harry’s. After everyone talks over each other about what they’d like to eat, and after Hermione and Gemma have a quick spat about house-elves, conversation comes to a lull as their empty stomach growl.

Darcy drinks her warm butterbeer happily, savoring it, glad that Hagrid had taken steps to let Harry know what he’ll be facing. But she doesn’t want Harry to be late for Sirius, and she desperately wants to be there. Surely, at that hour, no one would be in the common room? Surely no one would say anything about Darcy being in there anyway? After all, Gryffindor had been her House too, and people would assume she’s there to see Harry.

Halfway through their lunch, the bells tinkle above the doorway and Darcy glances up instinctively, doing a double take when she sees the golden hair. With a grand smile, Emily walks over to their table, almost sitting on Harry, and then squeezing into the booth beside Darcy. Emily makes small talk with everyone, and once Carla asks how everything is going with work, Emily launches into a long spiel about everything.

Darcy learns much—for instance, Emily claims she’d tried to stop the _Daily Prophet_ from publishing both articles about Harry and Darcy, but the lead editor had waved her aside unless she could produce a better story. Emily had tried, and according to her, Barnabas Cuffe hadn’t been pleased. Emily has brought copies of her articles with her, and even just glimpsing the title makes Darcy grin. _Modern Journalism: The Decline in Quality and the Harmful Message to Young Girls_. That was the one she’d offered up in exchange for Darcy’s article, while the other article—aptly titled, _Exploitation and Toxicity: How Rita Skeeter Rose to Fame_ —had been Emily’s suggestion for the front page.

“I love this,” Gemma laughs heartily, flipping through the stained and worn pages of the first article with Carla peering over her shoulder. “I’m serious—I’ll see if my parents will fund the publishing of this. Fantastic. Here’s my favorite part: ‘The decision to write about such insignificant things such as what a woman is wearing or who she is dating promotes the dangerous idea that women's actions, words, and accomplishments are not as important as a pretty face or pretty clothes.’”

Emily smiles proudly as Hermione snatches the paper from Gemma’s hands. Darcy and Lupin pore over the other article about Rita Skeeter, in which Emily names several people who’ve been victimized and harassed by Rita Skeeter, detailing the lengths she’d gone to get her story. Darcy reads aloud as she reaches the end of the article. “‘Here again, Rita Skeeter proves that she cares nothing for the well-being of her subjects, nor who suffers in the process as long as her exploitation of the people brings her more fame and more money and more traffic for the _Daily Prophet_.’”

“You wrote these in one night?” Hermione asks, trading articles with Darcy.

“Yeah. A night that involved a lot of coffee,” Emily answers with a slight smile. “When I gave them to Barnabas Cuffe, he said if I ever pulled shit like this again I’d be fired, Elizabeth’s daughter or not. Then he went ahead with Rita’s articles.”

Hermione and Harry leave a little while later, and Harry takes the Invisibility Cloak with him. Hermione is hesitant about Darcy coming to Gryffindor Tower so brazenly, but Darcy insists it’ll be fine as long as she keeps the common room clear. Carla and Emily quickly move into the empty seats across from Darcy, Lupin, and Gemma.

“I’ve also been doing some digging if you’re interested, now that the kids are gone,” Emily continues, looking very pleased with herself. “First of all, Tonks says you can trust Mad Eye—”

“Fat chance,” Darcy grumbles, rolling her eyes.

Emily continues as if there had been no interruption. “And I found some interesting history on our friend Ludo Bagman.”

Darcy and Lupin exchange a quick glance, and Darcy feels worry grip her heart. “What kind of interesting history?”

“Apparently, Ludo Bagman was tried for giving a Death Eater inside information, Ministry secrets—”

“And he was found not guilty,” Lupin says, cutting her off. Emily fixes him with a sharp look, and Lupin realizes too late that maybe he shouldn’t have interrupted. However, he takes her silence as an opportunity to continue. “I do not think Ludo Bagman did it on purpose—he was only being played like the fool he is.”

“You knew this?” Darcy asks Lupin quickly, frowning. “Why wouldn’t you tell me this?”

Lupin clenches his jaw, cocking an eyebrow. “What have you been telling him?”

“Nothing,” Darcy answers, crossing her arms over her chest. But she remembers what Ludo had told her very recently: _someone played this same game with me years ago, on a much larger scale, and I’ll admit I was a fool then._

“You know why they found him not guilty,” Emily snaps at him. “Because he was a famous Quidditch player, and likeable.”

“Emily, please don’t tell me you think Ludo Bagman is a Death Eater,” Carla sighs, running her fingertips along one of her braids, sounding rather bored.

“He was passing information,” Emily growls, her cheeks slightly pink.

Gemma only laughs at her. “Emily, Ludo Bagman isn’t a Death Eater, and has never been one for as long as I can remember,” she says, waving an impatient hand. “I’ve been around Death Eaters since I was born, and I’ve never seen Ludo Bagman at any of my parents’ galas, or at our home, or—the point is, Ludo Bagman is an idiot who talks too much and it got him into trouble. He won’t make that same mistake again.”

Emily huffs, brushing her hair out of her face and sitting up straighter. Darcy can’t help but to think Emily expected her information to be taken in a much different way. “Fine, if that information doesn’t interest you, perhaps we could move onto Barty Crouch. Have you spoken with him, Darcy?”

“Once, the night the other schools arrived. Ludo Bagman introduced us.”

“Everyone knows about Barty Crouch,” Gemma puts in, smiling at Emily in a way that Darcy knows must infuriate her. “And if you’re here to try and convince us that he put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire, or that he’s trying to hurt Darcy—”

“Why am I even here?” Emily asks shrilly, reminding Darcy of Hermione. “If you know all about Barty Crouch, then maybe I should let you tell them all that I’ve found.”

“Well, I don’t know about Barty Crouch,” Darcy tells her friends sheepishly.

“Nor I,” Carla adds.

Gemma leans forward to look past Lupin at Darcy. “Barty Crouch played a major role in the sentencing of Death Eaters after the First Wizarding World. And if you ask me, he went about it all the wrong way.”

“How do you mean?” Darcy asks breathlessly.

“Barty Crouch hates Death Eaters and those alike. But he used almost Death Eater-like tactics, which turned some people against him,” Lupin explains. “He permitted the use of Unforgivable Curses in order to get information or to capture wanted criminals. He was merciless, some say—he was the one who tried to imprison Ludo Bagman for his role in passing information. He was the one who sentenced Sirius to Azkaban without a trial, and he sent his own son to Azkaban.”

Darcy and Carla look at each other as they let this information sink in. She suddenly feels an unfamiliar sense of hatred boil up in her at the thought of Barty Crouch, at the thought of him condemning an innocent man to Azkaban without caring whether or not he was actually guilty. To know that one of the men responsible for sending Sirius to Azkaban has spoken to her, has looked at her with contempt, enrages her. Lupin seems to understand, however, and places a hand on her arm, calming her.

“Why did he send his own son?” Darcy asks, hoping to distract herself from thoughts of Sirius. “What did he do?”

There’s a heavy silence that falls over them. Gemma looks at Emily with a piercing gaze that lets Darcy know that Gemma isn’t going to answer. Lupin sighs heavily when Emily opens her mouth to speak.

“There were rumors,” Emily whispers, making Darcy lean forward to hear better. “That Barty Crouch Jr. was involved in the torture of—”

“Emily,” Lupin murmurs, as if meaning to stop her.

Emily looks at him for a long moment, but doesn’t stop. “The torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom. The Cruciatus Curse drove them into insanity.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say. All she knows is that she’s horrified, that this information has affected her in a way she didn’t think possible. She thinks of all the times Neville had mentioned being raised by his grandmother—why had no one even bothered to ask why? She looks at Carla, who looks slightly nauseous. Gemma looks stony faced, but Darcy imagines she already knew this information. Finally, Darcy looks up at Lupin.

“Is that true?” she whispers, hoping he’ll deny it. “Neville’s parents—?”

Lupin shifts very uncomfortably in his seat and nods very slowly.

“All of these things I found in old copies of the _Prophet_ , though,” Emily frowns. “I don’t have access to top secret information or court documents, nor does Tonks. I’m sorry I don’t have anything of substance to give to you, and I know it’s not what you wanted, but I just can’t find any evidence of foul play.”

“The evidence is Harry’s name coming out of the Goblet of Fire,” Darcy counters. “Why isn’t anyone taking us at our word? Don’t they care to find out who did it?”

“What about Bertha Jorkins?” Lupin asks suddenly. “What has the Ministry been doing about that?”

“Bertha Jorkins,” Darcy repeats quietly. The name had been in the Daily Prophet, and the only time she’d spoken to someone about it was at breakfast one morning. Snape had said she was a fool and likely got lost. “She got lost in Albania, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” Lupin replies. “And you know the last place that Voldemort was rumored to be?”

Carla flinches at the sound of the name, but everyone ignores her. Darcy purses her lips, not taking her eyes off Lupin. “Albania?”

“Hold on.” Gemma swats his arm as if he’s being ridiculous. “You think You-Know-Who got her?” Gemma scoffs, shaking her head. “I heard she was an idiot. I’m sure she just got lost and can’t find her way back.”

Lupin shrugs, leaning back in the booth and looking down at Darcy with a small smile when she rests her cheek upon his shoulder. “An idiot seems a prime target for a trap, Gemma,” Lupin says, looking back to Emily. “Isn’t the Ministry trying to find her?”

“No.” Emily inhales and exhales deeply. “Half of the Ministry is urging Fudge to do more, to intervene. And the other half of the Ministry is content with what they’re doing, which is nothing.” As if it’s painful to be on the same side as Lupin, Emily continues with a crease between her eyebrows. “It does worry me, though. I mean—I hadn’t thought of it until recently, but Bertha Jorkins would have known about the Quidditch World Cup, wouldn’t she? Is it so crazy to believe that she gave the information up? Willingly or not?”

“No, I don’t think it’s crazy at all.” Lupin puts a hand on Darcy’s thigh, which she hadn’t realized had been bouncing until feeling the warmth of his palm. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, and so has Sirius.”

Darcy wants to ask him then why he hasn’t told her any of this—why he’s kept it to himself. But she thinks she knows why and would rather confront him in private, away from Emily, who would likely go after him in a heartbeat. Instead, she decides to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Ludo told me that Fudge wanted me to turn my attention toward the Ministry—”

Emily cuts her off with a barking laugh. “We’ve all heard the rumors. Fudge wants you to be the poster girl of the Ministry to win him favor, but the plan has backfired. I don’t think he expected Darcy Potter to fall in love with a werewolf.” She and Lupin look at each other again. Emily traces the lip of her cup, smiling innocently at him.

“Holy shit.” Gemma looks at Darcy with wide eyes. “Fudge wants you to speak for the Ministry? Darcy, do you have any idea what that could mean for you?”

“What did you say?” Carla wonders, narrowing her eyes. “When Ludo told you, how did you answer?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested,” Darcy answers, looking up at Lupin. “All he was interested in was the power I could have, the glory or whatever else he said.”

“But he’s right, Darcy,” Gemma says, pushing Lupin back against the booth to get a better look at Darcy. Gemma’s face seems flushed, her dark eyes seemingly much brighter. “You befriend the right people, charm the right men, play the part of the little lady Fudge wants you to be—”

“What has Fudge ever done for Darcy that she should do this for him?” Carla argues, catching Gemma’s attention. Gemma looks at her thoughtfully, letting Carla continue. “It would be one thing if he ever took the time to get to know you—”

Lupin shuts Carla down quickly. “And if he had gotten to know you, he would have realized that you would never agree to something like that.”

Darcy looks at him again with a surge of affection. She remembers a night about a year ago—a night spent in front of a fireplace, talking of poetry and Aunt Petunia, bitter and angry and resentful. Darcy imagines herself at Fudge’s side—the proper lady Petunia always wanted her to be.

“Darcy, you’ve always wanted to go into the Ministry,” Emily says, reaching out to touch Darcy’s hand. Without thinking, Darcy pulls her hand away, immediately regretting it when she sees the hurt in Emily’s face. “Why have you changed your mind? You could make a difference in the world—just like we planned.”

Darcy’s face darkens, and she wishes she wasn’t so angry, but she can’t help it. “I don’t owe the Ministry anything,” she hisses, quieting the entire table. She can feel everyone watching her, but Darcy only has eyes for Emily. “They have decided my worth based on my last name and who I love. They have allowed Rita Skeeter to make a mockery of me, they refused to listen to the truth about Sirius, and they refuse to investigate this entire situation. I could give you a hundred reasons as to why I detest them and what they stand for. If they don’t think I’m worthy of speaking for the Ministry because of Remus, then maybe they never deserved me in the first place.”

Emily continues to look at her—curious, impressed almost. Her eyes are wide, not having expected Darcy’s reaction. “Who are you?” she asks mildly.

“I’m Darcy Potter. And I don’t need to be the Minister’s pet to make a difference.” She looks around the table. Emily doesn’t seem angry—she seems proud; Carla’s eyebrows are raised in surprise; there’s a smirk playing on Gemma’s interested face; and Lupin is smiling at her, an easy smile, the cool smile that made it so easy to love him. She thinks of Gemma, making a name for herself with her research, making a difference in not only Lupin’s life, but possibly other werewolves. She thinks of Hermione and S.P.E.W. She thinks of Sirius, on the run because of Fudge’s unwillingness to listen to reason, and of Harry, forced to compete a tournament he shouldn’t have been entered in in the first place. And she thinks of Lupin, discriminated against wherever he goes, hated because of a stigma created by fear mongering, outed because of an article written about Darcy. “I belong here, at Hogwarts. I do. And I know the weight that my name carries. If no one is going to take action, then I will.”

Emily lifts her cup to toast Darcy, and everyone else does the same. “All you need to do is say the word and I’m here,” she says. “We’re all with you. Until the end.”

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I never expected this story to be as long as it’s probably going to be but I can’t be stopped

Lupin’s arm draped around her shoulders, Darcy nuzzles into him. In her fist, she rereads the letter that so breaks her heart. _Please don’t come tonight_ , Hermione had written, _I’m sure Harry won’t be back in time to give you the Invisibility Cloak_. Darcy knows that Harry seeing the dragons is important, but it still hurts knowing she won’t be able to talk to Sirius, to tell him all about tonight. _If anyone finds out about this, we’ll all be in trouble. It’s too risky._ Darcy crushes the letter in her fist, putting it on the table. _I’ll tell Sirius you wanted to come. I’m sure he’ll ask for you_. Darcy means to throw it into the fire, to watch it blacken and curl and disappear. _He loves you, he’ll understand_.

She knows there will be other times—she’ll have years to talk to Sirius, years to see him. She’d waited over ten years to see him again, so what’s a few more weeks? Months? Years? Then again, before June—before the Shrieking Shack—Darcy’s heart hadn’t ached for Sirius as it does now. There’s a hole in her heart that Sirius left when he flew away on Buckbeak, when he hadn’t looked back at her one last time. Why should Hermione be allowed to relish the comfort of her godfather’s presence? Why should Hermione be allowed to speak with Sirius, and not Darcy? Maybe Hermione had been the reason Sirius could be saved in the first place, but by what right does that mean Hermione can use the time Darcy could be using by talking to Sirius?

Darcy looks down at her cup, half-full of butterbeer. She hadn’t felt like drinking much, but now she would gladly welcome something to burn her throat as it goes down, something to light a fire in her chest. What she wouldn’t give to see Sirius face to face, to feel his arms around her, to hear his rasping voice whispering _I’m proud of you, I’m proud of you, I’m proud of you_.

Lupin had made sure to tell her as soon as her friends were gone and they were alone in the shadowy corner of The Three Broomsticks. He had peppered her face in soft kisses, murmured the words against her skin, held her close with one arm around her. It had made Darcy smile, to feel the scratch of his beard against her face, to hear the words she’d longed to hear from _someone_ for so long.

Darcy looks up at him, their faces closer than she thought. Maybe she hasn’t been drinking, but Lupin certainly has; she’s all too familiar with the smell of firewhisky to not smell it on his breath. Even his eyes show sign of drink—heavy and tired, bloodshot. His cheeks are flushed, his hairline slightly damp from sweat. And the way he looks at her is better than any kind of warmth alcohol could offer, with his chest heaving and neck barely outstretched, looking for Darcy to kiss him.

“Don’t keep things from me,” she whispers to him, not unkindly, and Lupin raises his eyebrows. “I know you just don’t want to upset me, but I can handle it.”

He considers her for a long time, finally smiling down at her. “All right, I’m sorry,” he answers quietly. “No more secrets. Have any you’d like to share?”

“You know all of my secrets.”

This makes Lupin chuckle. He takes Darcy’s chin, tilting her head back further, so her lips are just inches from his. Darcy wishes it could be this way forever—anonymous among the other patrons, who pay them no mind. Rarely ever does Lupin touch her so boldly in sight of people—rarely ever does he kiss her when there are others around to see. She wonders if, when she touches Lupin so lovingly, he’d do anything for her, as well.

“Come home for Christmas, Darcy,” he breathes, kissing her very lightly on the lips. Darcy holds her breath and closes her eyes, drunk on his kiss. He pulls away far too soon, and when her eyes flutter open again, Lupin speaks again. “I want you all to myself.”

Darcy smiles, admiring him. She likes the vulnerable look he has to him now—the same look he has upon waking in the morning, bleary-eyed, or when he walks around his cottage without a shirt on and his hair a tousled mess. Those moments that he reminds Darcy of a young man, part of her aches with the knowledge that she’s missed so much of his life, that he has missed so much of hers. Darcy tries to imagine Lupin as a boy her age, at school with her—a boy without those premature lines on his face or the flecks of gray in his hair or the bitterness with which he speaks sometimes.

_Home_ , she thinks. She’d never acknowledged Privet Drive as such, and never will. Hogwarts is home, she thinks, and it has been for the last seven and a half years of her life. “I want to,” she answers.

Lupin sighs, looking at her for a long time. “But?”

“Well,” Darcy begins, blushing. “Harry and I have never spent Christmas apart.”

“Never?” Lupin asks. “What about when you were at Hogwarts without him?”

“I went back to Aunt Petunia’s for Christmas.”

He’s quiet for a moment, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Darcy,” he rasps, kissing her forehead. “I do enjoy the time we spend together, more than you know. But I would like to spend more time with you than just during the weekends, or a few stolen hours during the week.” Lupin draws her closers, and Darcy takes hold of the hand that dangles from around her shoulders, twining their fingers together. “Harry’s had you for thirteen Christmases—let me have you for this one.”

Darcy frowns, opening her mouth to speak, but Lupin stops her.

“Why don’t we go upstairs?”

“All right.”

It isn’t until he gets to his feet that Darcy realizes how much he’s drank. Lupin moves slowly up the stairs, Darcy’s arm snaked around his waist. At the end of the narrow corridor is the door to his modest room, and Darcy helps him undress. Lupin falls into bed with a groan, closing his eyes. She smiles at him for a moment, undressing by the firelight before climbing into bed next to him, curling up against his chest.

She hates herself for it—for the tears that well up in her eyes, that fall down her cheeks. Only hours ago, Darcy felt that she could do anything, that she was invincible and powerful and commanding. And now she’s nothing but a little girl, afraid that Lupin will leave her—afraid that she’ll have to live the rest of her life without his kisses and without being able to hold his hand, without his words of love and praise and comfort. Darcy looks into his face and tries to imagine never being able to fall asleep beside him again, wrapped in his arms. For years Darcy had gone to sleep alone, in a home she wasn’t wanted, wasn’t loved.

_I don’t want to be alone anymore._

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, combing Lupin’s hair back with her fingers. He keeps his eyes closed, a soft pout on his lips. The tears that leak from the corners of her eyes tickle her skin, dripping from the bridge of her nose and onto her pillow. Darcy touches his lips before kissing them, as if to make sure they’re real. “I’m sorry that it’s not enough for you.”

“I’ve told you before,” he replies sleepily. “Don’t ever apologize for that. It’s more than enough for me. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you, Darcy,” he breathes, putting his hand to her face to wipe her tears. “And I don’t expect you to say it back every time. But I want for you to know that you are loved.”

Darcy kisses him again, gentle and hesitant, as if unsure he wants to kiss her back. It reminds her of the first kiss she’d ever given him, and she wonders what had been going through her head when she did it. “I spent fourteen years caring for Harry. I spent years in a household where I was alone with him. I had no one to talk to, no one to comfort me, or kiss me or love me. Except Harry—always Harry.” It’s true that she had resented her baby brother for a time, but it had been hard to resent him when he smiled at her, placing his tiny hands on her cheeks, putting his wet, baby’s mouth to hers to kiss her. “And he’s not a little boy anymore, eager to curl up in my lap and fall asleep against me. He doesn’t need me anymore, I know. But I need him.”

Lupin is quiet, stroking her hair, his eyes still shut. Darcy continues to cry quietly, even as he shushes her.

“Last year, I told you my dream was to get married, have children—settle down, have a real family,” she sniffles. “I still want those things, Remus. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Darcy nuzzles her face into his palm, calloused and warm. “Maybe one day, when the grief has stopped eating at me, and I don’t miss mum and dad so much. Maybe when the hurt has lessened, but until then—I need my brother.”

“It’s all right, Darcy.” His eyes open for the first times and he gives her a small smile. “Maybe I’ll get you next Christmas.”

“Maybe.”

He kisses her cheek. “And if not that Christmas,” he sighs contently, closing his eyes again, “there will be others.”

Darcy smiles at him, her chest heaving. She kisses him hard and deep, pulling away breathlessly. “I love you.”

“I’ll never tire of hearing you say that,” he murmurs, a sly smile creeping across his face. “Now, sweetheart, please—go to sleep…”

* * *

“You are such a damn liar, Darcy!” Harry hisses, and his sister gives him a dangerous look, her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“I only found out Friday night when Remus and I ran into Charlie,” Darcy says, glancing at Hermione before saying, “And he was _so_ jealous.”

Hermione looks mildly curious for a moment before she catches herself and quickly rearranges her features.

“And Charlie promised he’d speak to Hagrid about it so I wouldn’t have to tell you, Harry. And he did. But never mind that—did Sirius ask about me?”

“We can talk about that later—I want to talk about Karkaroff.”

“I don’t think he did it,” Darcy answers. She must have told him so a hundred times since they’d departed her apartment towards the Great Hall for breakfast. “Gemma says he’s a coward—”

“So is Wormtail, but he still went back to Voldemort,” Harry retorts angrily. “Who’s to say that Karkaroff won’t go back either?”

“Why don’t you talk to Gemma about tomorrow? She’ll be here for the task.”

“Listen, I know what Sirius said, and—”

“Harry, tomorrow is the first task, and you need to be alive if you want to figure out who put your name in the Goblet of Fire,” Hermione snaps at them, her voice low as a group of sixth year Hufflepuffs pass them. “What are you going to do?”

Harry isn’t listening; his eyes follow the Hufflepuffs until they’re out of sight. He turns to look at Darcy. “Madame Maxime was there Saturday night. She saw the dragons. She probably told Fleur, right?”

Darcy shrugs. “Probably.”

“And I’m sure Karkaroff knows, and then Krum knows,” Harry continues. “But who would have told Cedric? I mean, it’s not like Hagrid showed him, too. I should tell him, shouldn’t I?”

“I—” Darcy hesitates, looking fondly down at Harry. “That’s very kind of you, Harry.”

Harry rolls his eyes and the gesture is so endearing that Darcy has to smile. “I’m not doing it because—” he scoffs. “I should tell him because it’s fair then, isn’t it?”

As they reach the threshold of the Great Hall, they pause for a moment. “Come have dinner with me tonight,” Darcy tells them, heading towards the staff table. “We’ll talk about it more. And I want to know if he asked about me.”

The first half of the day goes by quickly. Darcy sits in classes, distracted, occasionally walking from table to table to give her legs something to do. Carla hadn’t dared to bring up the first task or anything that Snape wouldn’t appreciate hearing in his classroom, so they talk very little.

All she can think about is Karkaroff at first. Snape had warned her about him first, but never gave any reason as to why. She wonders if it would be a good idea to try and see why Snape has said so—wonders if he’d actually tell her. Darcy waits for the class to clear for lunch, lingering behind as she cleans up her things. Snape messes about with some papers on his desk, waving his wand and making all the small vials filled with the day’s potion soar to a shelf.

“Professor Snape?” she asks softly, sweetly. He glances up at her and holds her gaze for a moment. “I was wondering if I might ask you something.”

He sighs heavily and dramatically. “Go on, then.”

“It’s about Professor Karkaroff,” Darcy begins again, trying to read the expression on Snape’s face. “When he first arrived, you warned me of him. Did you think he meant to do me harm, sir?”

“Igor Karkaroff is a fool at times,” Snape says quickly, so quickly it surprises Darcy. “But not so much a fool as to attempt to harm you under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore.”

“So you don’t think he put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire?” Darcy continues, moving closer to the desk. She puts her hands atop it, across from Snape. “I know what he is—or what he was, rather. Gemma told me. I can’t imagine Professor Dumbledore would let a Death Eater walk through the doors of Hogwarts if he didn’t trust him. And no one else seems to suspect him, sir.”

Snape narrows his eyes slightly, studying her face. His black eyes pierce hers, but she doesn’t look away. In truth, it had been Lupin to convince her. He was quite sure that, if Dumbledore didn’t suspect Karkaroff, then Karkaroff didn’t do it. And Darcy had seen how angry he’d gotten the night Harry’s name came out—Darcy doesn’t believe him that good of an actor.

“Listen to me, Darcy,” Snape finally replies. “You and your brother have both toed the line one too many times, and now would be a good time to stop. Let the adults handle it instead of attempting to deal with things that are none of your business.”

“Excuse me, _sir_ , but it is my business. Whoever put his name in meant to do him harm, I’m sure of it.”

“Or someone put his name in as a joke.”

Darcy looks at him for a long time. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? Lunch, perhaps? Or whispering tips into your brother’s ear?”

She knows when to accept defeat, and knows that she will get no more out of Snape, so she gathers her things and heads for the door.

Harry and Hermione aren’t at lunch, so Darcy treks back to the portrait her door is hidden behind, mutters the password, and she isn’t surprised to find them both in her room. Harry’s wand is drawn, pointing at a book in Hermione’s hands, but at the sight of Darcy, they both lower their hands.

Harry smiles at her. “Darcy, I’ve got it! Kind of—I just need to practice.”

“What is it?” Darcy asks eagerly.

“A Summoning Charm,” Harry says, and when Darcy cocks an eyebrow, he explains. “Professor Moody talked to me today about the dragon. He was trying to help me, and—if I can summon my Firebolt, then I can get past a dragon.”

“That’s—a wonderful idea,” she grins, relief washing over her. “Can you do a Summoning Charm?”

Harry’s cheeks turn slightly pink and he crosses his arms defensively. “I told you, I need to practice. You could teach me.”

They practice all through lunch, attempting to summon random things lying around the room. Harry’s attempts are weak and feeble, and he snaps at Darcy often whenever she tells him to concentrate, but she persists, not taking any of it to heart. When she shows Harry how a proper Summoning Charm should work, and the book in Hermione’s hands flies into Darcy’s, Harry rolls his eyes and mutters, “Show off.”

“If I wanted to show off, I would have done this.” Without a word, Darcy flicks her wand at a framed picture on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, and the picture comes to Darcy, zooming towards her. She catches it and looks at Harry with a smile.

They continue to practice during dinner and well into the night. Harry gets better at it with each and every try, and between Hermione cheering him on and shouting words of encouragement and Darcy offering them bottle after bottle of butterbeer, Harry is soon making the empty bottles fly across the room at him with surprising ease—sort of. The knowledge of dragons has shaken Harry; he does hide it well, and Darcy is proud of the fight and vigor he’s showing, but she knows him too well to be fooled by this façade. She sees the way his hands shake when he holds up his wand, sees the worry in his bright green eyes.

A few minutes past midnight, Darcy’s floor is littered with empty bottles, books, plates, photographs, parchment, quills, and even Darcy’s clunky old camera. After helping her clean the mess, Hermione urges Harry to return to Gryffindor Tower to get some sleep—to rest before the task. Darcy has to agree; Harry seems to have a good understanding of the Summoning Charm and is able to do it relatively well now. Her nerves have settled very slightly, knowing Harry is walking into this first task better prepared than any of them could have hoped.

Before Harry and Hermione leave, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Darcy stops them. “Did Sirius ask about me?”

Harry lowers the cloak so only his head is visible. He looks at Darcy for a long time. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and Darcy smiles. “He seemed disappointed you wouldn’t be there. He said—” Harry hesitates, taking the Invisibility Cloak off both himself and Hermione, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “Darcy, what exactly happened the night you saw Sirius?”

Darcy licks her lips. Harry had been good to her about it—he had sensed her sadness and bitterness when she’d given him a vague sense of what happened, leaving out her entire argument with Sirius. He hadn’t pressed her for details, nor brought it up really at all. She looks at Hermione, awkwardly shuffling her feet, trying to avoid Darcy’s eyes—Darcy knows she’s listening, but doesn’t mind.

“Sirius and I both said some things we didn’t mean,” Darcy tells Harry, not in the mood to describe the entire incident. It’s only bound to get her heart pumping again, to make her nerves start jangling. “A lot of things have happened in both of our lives that we are still coming to terms with, and we both let grief get the better of us. Now, go to bed. The both of you. Harry, you need your rest before tomorrow.”

But Harry doesn’t move. “Did it have anything to do with Lupin?”

Hermione touches his arm. “Harry…”

Darcy only gives him a tired smile. “Go get some rest, Harry. And you, Hermione.”

“You should get some sleep too,” Harry says, throwing the Invisibility Cloak back over the two of them. “Goodnight, Darcy.”

But Darcy doesn’t sleep at all that night. Her mind races with thoughts of dragons first—though she’s confident in Harry’s flying, she doesn’t know what exactly it will do for him. Keep him away from the dragon, surely, and Charlie had told her they wouldn’t have to fight it to the death. And when she’s not thinking about the dragons, she’s thinking about Sirius and the argument they’d had. She wonders if Sirius wants to apologize—she knows she does. She hates that they’d parted on bad terms, that she never told him she cares about him. She didn’t even get to say goodbye, or hug him once more, or feel his hands on her face—hands that she imagines are so like her father’s. Next time, she tells herself, she’ll take a picture of the two of them, to sit upon her mantle beside the pictures of her and Harry and her friends and Lupin.

Gemma is at Hogwarts first thing in the morning, greeting Darcy on her way to the hospital wing as breakfast starts. “Sleep at all?” she asks with a knowing smile, looking carefully at the bags under Darcy’s eyes. “It’ll be fine. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Classes continue through the morning as usual, but Snape knows better than to teach them something useful. Students are distracted by the first task, talking in whispers and excited murmurs. This only makes Darcy more anxious, her stomach rolling and making her want to vomit. She tries to ignore them, to block them out, but their whispers crawl into her brain, forcing Darcy to think the worst. She’s quite glad when lunch comes, but finds she can’t eat even the tiniest bit of food without her stomach refusing it.

When Professor McGonagall approaches Harry at the Gryffindor table, urging him out of the Great Hall, Darcy checks her watch. Lupin and Emily are to be in Hogsmeade soon, so she follows her brother and McGonagall out into the grounds, catching up to them easily with a few long strides.

The walk is silent, and Professor McGonagall gives Darcy a couple nervous glances. She speaks to Darcy once, but with her pulse pounding in her ears, Darcy doesn’t hear a single word McGonagall says. She replies with a grunt, and when McGonagall leads Harry towards the forest, Darcy continues down the path into Hogsmeade.

Lupin and Emily are bickering in The Three Broomsticks—or rather, Emily is giving him a piece of her mind while Lupin gives her a bored and exasperated look. However, upon seeing Darcy enter, the bells tinkling to signal her entrance, both Lupin and Emily rush over to her.

Emily is clad in a fine black cloak, a red and gold Gryffindor scarf hanging around her neck. She touches Darcy’s face with cold fingers. “Darcy, you don’t look well.” Darcy shakes her off. “Listen, everything is going to be fine.”

“Can we just go, please?” Darcy hisses.

Emily leads the way out. Darcy clutches Lupin’s hand tightly—so tight that she’s sure she’s hurting him, but Lupin doesn’t complain. He looks down at her with the tiniest of smiles. “I know it’s not what you want to hear,” he whispers so Emily can’t hear. Darcy hardly listens; she looks around the High Street and realizes almost the entire village is heading down to the forest to watch the first task. “But everything will be fine.”

“Granted that Harry doesn’t die today,” Darcy tells him, laughing weakly. “Can we have dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” Lupin replies. “Look at me, Darcy.”

She does, seeing Emily look over her shoulder at them out of the corner of her eye. Lupin doesn’t seem half as nervous as she is, and Darcy wonders if he’s faking it or not. How could anyone be so calm before something like this? “What?” she asks, heart racing.

“It’s all right. Just breathe, Darcy. You aren’t walking to your death, and neither is Harry.” He gives his head a small shake, getting the hair out of his eyes. Lupin squeezes her hand. “I love you.”

Emily grumbles under her breath in front of them, her back still to them.

“If there’s something you would say, Emily, then say it,” Lupin grins, not the least bit angry. He sounds amused, and Darcy silently curses him for being so collected and cool. “It’s not polite to mutter under your breath in the presence of friends.”

Emily shoots daggers at him. “We are not friends.”


	35. Chapter 35

Gemma’s eyes brighten at the sight of Darcy and Lupin entering the large tent. Inside, the ground is soft and lumpy, but covered with what looks like scratchy carpet. There are smaller walls inside to separate the cots inside each of the cubicles—empty, to Darcy’s relief—and there are some tables and counters, mostly covered with bandages and potions and ingredients. Gemma sets down a bowl full of thick orange paste, running up to Darcy and throwing her arms around her neck. Darcy stumbles, releasing Lupin’s hand to hug Gemma back. Part of her feels guilty for finding comfort in Gemma’s hug and not Emily’s fretting, but she pushes the thought to the back of her mind.

When Gemma pulls away from Darcy, she looks at Lupin with her eyebrows raised and a smile on her face. “Did you scare Emily off already?”

Lupin just chuckles and shakes his head.

“Finding seats,” Darcy answers, saving Lupin the trouble.

“You must be so nervous,” Gemma says to Darcy, taking her hands and leading her over to one of the cots. “I couldn’t believe it when Madam Pomfrey told me there would be dragons— _shit_ , I hope I didn’t spoil it—I mean, I’ve never even seen one before. Does Harry have a plan?”

“I knew.” Darcy fidgets uncomfortably, but knows that Madam Pomfrey would never purposefully get her into trouble. “Harry found out just Saturday night,” she explains, and Darcy is glad to see Madam Pomfrey doesn’t even flinch at the learning of this knowledge. “We worked all yesterday on the plan. He’s going to summon his Firebolt.”

Gemma looks incredibly skeptical, and she shares a doubtful look with Lupin, as well. However, her skepticism quickly fades, and she turns back to Madam Pomfrey, smiling sweetly. “Madam Pomfrey, may I _please_ go sit with my friends?”

Madam Pomfrey looks them all over, fixing them with a stern gaze. Then, she sighs heavily, defeated. “Go,” she tells Gemma. “I think Potter needs you more than I do.”

“Look,” Gemma tells her friends happily. “I decided to sport Gryffindor colors today.” She tucks her dark hair behind her ears, showing off her earrings. Two golden earrings hang from her lobes, rubies in the center. Up her left ear are three golden studs, usually silver.

“I should have brought my camera,” Darcy teases. She looks up at Lupin. “Seven years and Gemma has never once cheered for Gryffindor in anything.”

“It’s Harry I’m cheering for today, not Gryffindor,” Gemma replies. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t find earrings with Harry’s face on them.”

Darcy shakes her head, smiling weakly. “I think he’d much prefer the ones you’re wearing.”

Gemma leads Darcy and Lupin towards the stands. It almost reminds Darcy of the Quidditch pitch through the thinning trees— _how I’d love to be watching Quidditch instead of this_ —with hundreds of seats for the spectators, already half filled. Many of the Hogwarts students are wearing black and yellow in homage to the true Hogwarts champion, while others wave banners supporting Viktor Krum; all of the Beauxbatons students have already been seated, their powder blue uniforms still on, crisp and clean. They lack banners or pennants for their champion, but the looks on their faces are eager and excited.

“Madam Pomfrey was horrified when they told her about the dragons,” Gemma says, making her way through the forest. Upon reaching the clearing, she shields her eyes from the sun and looks up into the stands. “Absolutely disgusted, but—well, they’re better than dementors, yeah? Oh, look—Emily’s found Carla.”

“Wait for us!”

Darcy, Lupin, and Gemma turn quickly to see Hermione running towards them, followed by a very reluctant Ron. Hermione’s face is white, drained of all color, looking just as anxious as Darcy, and she clutches onto Darcy’s sleeve tight, pulling her forward to stand face to face with Ron.

Ron looks rather green, and he looks down at his feet rather than at Darcy’s face. He’s taller than Harry, lankier and skinnier—he always has been—and at fourteen, is just a few inches shy of being at a height with Darcy. She realizes then just how much she’s missed his company. Ron has always been able to make her smile, and after seeing him at her brother’s side for three years and after coming to see his own father as her own, Darcy has a certain fondness for Ron.

“You owe her an apology, Ron,” Hermione hisses in his ear. “Go on, say it.”

Ron’s ears turn bright red and he looks up at Darcy sheepishly, wrapping his arms around himself. She waits patiently for an apology she doesn’t really think necessary, but Darcy thinks it’ll probably be good for him. Truthfully, she thinks that Harry is the one who deserves an apology, but she’s sure he’ll get one by the end of the day. Finally, Ron sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Darcy,” he frowns, looking away from her again. “I didn’t really think you put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire.”

Hermione seems satisfied with it. Darcy laughs for the first time all day, pulling Ron into a tight hug. Ron nuzzles into her shoulder as she grips his hair. “You can be such an idiot, Ron,” she whispers, kissing the top of his head. “You know that?”

Ron smiles, wriggling out of Darcy’s arms. “I know.”

“You’re going to talk to me again?”

“Yeah,” Ron shrugs, digging his hands into his pockets.

“This is really cute and all,” Gemma interrupts with a chuckle. “But if you guys are done, could we go find our seats?”

The five of them find places beside Emily and Carla. Carla’s wearing black and yellow, and beside her are a few of her Hufflepuff friends. They smile politely at Darcy, but immediately put their heads together, whispering, at the sight of Lupin holding her hand. Lupin doesn’t fail to notice, meaning to let go of her, but Darcy only squeezes tighter.

“You’re not even cheering for Harry?” Emily asks Carla harshly, taking a seat beside her.

“I told Darcy I wouldn’t,” Carla snaps. “I’m obligated to cheer for Cedric.”

“You’re obligated to cheer for one of your best friend’s brother,” Gemma says loudly from Lupin’s other side.

Darcy, seated between Emily and Lupin, looks over at Carla. “Gemma’s wearing red and gold earrings.”

“Is she really?” Carla asks, looking across everyone at Gemma in disbelief. Gemma’s too busy in deep conversation with Hermione to notice Carla’s staring. Carla gives her head a shake, looking at Darcy again very seriously. “Did you take a picture?”

“I thought about it.”

Down below, what the stands surround, is a large enclosure—plenty big for a dragon and its prey—decorated with a few rocks, but otherwise empty. The stands begin to fill in, and Darcy and her friends squeeze together, shoulder to shoulder. The tight fit makes Darcy more anxious, and she looks around for a sign of Harry, or Charlie, or even Ludo Bagman—someone to calm her, to reassure her, to _get her out_ of this claustrophobic hellhole.

“I think I’m starting to freak out again,” Darcy mutters to Lupin, breathing fast and heavy. “I think I’m going to have a heart attack.”

“This is how Darcy was at Harry’s first Quidditch match,” Hermione tells Lupin, and he chuckles. Some color seems to have come back to her—Hermione’s cheeks are pink, but whether from cold or her nerves settling, Darcy isn’t sure. “Her eyes were closed the whole time.”

“I saw him catch the Snitch,” Darcy retorts hotly. It’s a lie; her eyes were closed most of the match, and when she opened them, Harry had been holding the Snitch in the palm of his hand.

Ron scoffs from the end of the bench next to Hermione. “If your eyes were actually open, you would have known he almost swallowed it.”

Darcy blushes, but Lupin wraps an arm around her, smiling. “Your mother did the same when she and James started going out,” he admits, making Darcy smile in spite of herself. “She’d watch through her fingers when things got particularly nasty.”

Before anymore can be said, Ludo Bagman’s voice, magically magnified, booms out a warm welcome. Thinking of the Quidditch World Cup, Darcy’s heart beats faster than ever, and all she wants to do is run away, run far away, escape the voice that reminds her of that night. On her right side, Emily takes Darcy’s hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. Emily is pale and sweaty, her hand slippery and trembling slightly, and Darcy squeezes, suddenly feeling very sorry for her friend. Surely the memory of that night is much more vivid for Emily, but she only wipes her forehead and brushes her hair out of her face.

“Welcome to the first task of the newly resurrected Triwizard Tournament!” Ludo announces. Darcy sits up and Lupin’s arm retracts from around her shoulders. She and Emily move closer to each other until Darcy’s nearly sitting on them. Emily wraps her neatly manicured free hand around Darcy’s arm, and Darcy takes more comfort from this than anything else that’s happened today. “Our four champions have been prepped for today’s task, and now it’s time for you all to find out the mystery that is the first task!”

Ludo, from the judges table off to Darcy’s right, gestures to two large doors on the opposite side of the enclosure. They open dramatically and everyone around Darcy draws in a sharp breath. She sees Charlie enter first, helping a group of other men and women lead in a dragon. The scales are a beautiful silvery-blue, the horns long and yellow, along with its long talons and teeth. The dragon snorts angrily, and blue flames shoot from the deep set nostrils.

“The Swedish Short-Snout, possibly one of the most beautiful dragons—though Charlie Weasley tried to convince me otherwise just last night!” Ludo continues, as the dragon is pulled into the middle of the enclosure. The crowd gasps as the dragon continues to breathe blue fire into the air. “Our champions have each chosen a dragon, and their job is to collect the golden egg, which will hold a clue regarding the second task! Our spectacular judges will then score our champions based on their performance!”

Darcy watches Charlie Weasley carefully place a golden egg in a nest full of regular eggs, backing away quickly. The other dragon trainers follow, jumping a small wall on the edge of the enclosure to watch closely.

“Now,” Ludo says, his voice ringing in Darcy’s head. Emily’s grip on her hand has nearly cut her circulation off, but Darcy says nothing. Her grip is just as tight. “A round of applause for our first champion… from Hogwarts—”

Darcy’s stomach twists into a complicated knot.

“Cedric Diggory!”

Carla and her Hufflepuff friends jump to their feet, stomping their feet and roaring their approval as Cedric steps out into the clearing. Lupin and Hermione clap politely, but all around them, most of the Hogwarts students are screaming and cheering for the lone Hufflepuff in the center. Cedric is too far away to see his face clearly, but Darcy is impressed with the way he walks out with some shred of confidence, his wand gripped tight in his right hand and his shoulders back as he watches the dragon carefully.

Darcy feels lightheaded—it would have been better if it had been Harry stepping out. At least then it would be over, but watching Cedric attempt to get to the egg is nerve wracking and almost physically painful, because now she knows what Harry will be up against, and she isn’t sure how much longer she can wait. The cheering makes it almost impossible to hear Ludo’s commentary, and the entire stadium seems to swim before her every so often.

Cedric keeps his distance and raises his wand, Transfiguring one of the rocks into a dog with shaggy yellow fur, and it runs in a circle, lazily, as if its legs aren’t quite right. Emily’s fingernails dig into Darcy’s arm, bringing Darcy back to reality for a moment.

The dragon is distracted, following the circling dog and it lunges—the dog is quicker, dancing just out of reach as Cedric creeps steadily nearer to the nest of eggs. The minutes seem drawn out as the dragon continues to follow the dog, blue flames erupting from its mouth and nostrils, missing it by mere inches, surely singing some of its fur. The roar is a screeching noise, so loud that it must echo around the world.

“Are you watching, Darcy?” Gemma shouts across Lupin with a smile. She elbows him in the ribs. “Make sure she keeps her eyes open!”

Lupin looks down at Darcy, still huddled together with Emily, now holding each other.

Cedric is so close— _so_ close—and Darcy is eager for the end, her heart fit to bursting. He reaches for the golden egg, but the dragon seems to sense it. The Transfigured dog barks and snarls from behind the dragon, but the Swedish Short-Snout isn’t interested anymore. Emily screams as the dragon opens its mouth at the same time that Cedric places his hands on the golden egg—flames shoot towards him and Emily screams in Darcy’s ear, but Cedric moves quickly, running far away from the dragon and cradling the egg as the dragon trainers flood the field to subdue it.

“He’s got the egg! He did it!” Ludo shouts, over and over and over. “Looks like the Swedish Short-Snout has burned his face—that might hurt his score—but he’s smiling!”

The crowd erupts, louder than ever, and Carla’s on her feet again, waving her black and yellow scarf in the air. Cedric holds up the egg to tremendous applause, the left side of his face an angry red color.

“Shouldn’t you be going back to help with that?” Hermione asks Gemma, clapping along with the others, though not as excitedly.

“What do you think I did all day?” Gemma scoffs, waving an impatient hand. “Madam Pomfrey has plenty of burn cream for him. You don’t need two people for that.”

Emily releases her hold on Darcy as the judges declare their score for Cedric. “That was terrifying,” Emily admits in a shaky voice. “What did you say Harry’s doing again?”

“He’s flying,” Darcy answers. “He’s going to summon his Firebolt.”

“If he was really smart, he’d fly it far away from here.”

“You’re not making me feel any better.”

Fleur Delacour is next, facing a Common Welsh Green. Her dragon doesn’t look as menacing as the Swedish Short-Snout had—it’s certainly smaller. Every inch of this dragon is colored a grass green, its snout elongated and thin. The tail seems to go on forever, and when Fleur takes the field, it’s to less raucous applause than when Cedric came out. She seems a little more prepared for this than Cedric had—Fleur waves her wand, performing a complicated motion and sending what seems like pink smoke from the tip of her wand.

The spell hits the dragon in the face and it sways for a moment. Almost as if falling asleep, its head lowers, and Fleur takes her chance. She dives for the egg, but the dragon wakes almost instantly, driving Fleur backwards once more. She tries again, and again, and again, until the dragon is drowsy and unable to move quick enough to get her. And then, the dragon crashes to the ground, large eyes closing slowly. Fleur hesitates, running at the nest again, grabbing the golden egg to Ludo Bagman’s excited banter. As Fleur goes to hold it high above her beautiful head, the dragon snorts and a thin stream of fire shoots from its nostrils, catching the hem of Fleur’s skirt. She shrieks and drops the egg to the ground, dousing her skirt with water from the tip of her wand as the trainers enter the enclosure once more to move the dragon away.

“Oh— _please_ let it be Harry next,” Darcy says, wiping her sweaty palms on her cloak. “I can’t wait much longer…”

“Feeling any better about his chances?” Lupin asks, brushing some hair out of her face.

“As Harry’s sister, I am completely confident in his ability to outfly a dragon,” Darcy answers, laughing nervously. “But I could be feeling a little better.”

Unfortunately, it’s not Harry who’s next—Viktor Krum skulks into the enclosure, and it seems as if everyone cheers for him. Even Ron leans forward slightly down the line, watching intently and cheering along with the rest of the crowd. The dragon he’s meant to face is a Chinese Fireball, scales a beautiful crimson color—the color of blood—and golden horns all around its face. Its eyes seems to bulge out of their sockets, and when it snorts, fireballs shoot from its nostrils.

Viktor Krum doesn’t hesitate, sending a well-aimed Conjunctivitis Curse into the dragon’s eye. From Emily’s other side, Carla claps excitedly, looking at Lupin. “You taught us that!”

Lupin smiles and Darcy leans into him, thankful for the comfort his arm brings her when he wraps it around her again.

But the curse doesn’t produce the results that Viktor Krum likely expected—the dragon stomps its feet angrily, roaring and snorting red hot fire in its agony and pain. Krum has to dodge the large feet several times, and Darcy can’t help but to think how clumsy he looks on the ground, considering how well he’d flown during the World Cup match. Emily takes Darcy’s hand again, holding tight.

Darcy’s heart still hammers madly in her chest as the Chinese Fireball crushes some of her own eggs beneath her feet, only making her angrier. It takes Krum almost fifteen more minutes to get closer to the dragon’s nest, and, blinded and in pain, the dragon stumbles, unable to see the boy that has slipped between its legs. Viktor Krum grabs the golden egg and backs off unharmed as trainers swarm around the enraged dragon. He doesn’t hold the egg up in the air, only offers a small and forced smile to the noisy audience, and Darcy hears several girls scream. Gemma claps loudly for him, sighing contently as he swaggers out of sight.

Darcy sees Harry’s dragon first before see actually sees him. This dragon is surely the meanest, the most vicious. It takes nearly all of the trainers to lead the black Hungarian Horntail—aptly named, Darcy thinks, absolutely horrified—into the enclosure, thrashing its heavy, spiked tail and breathing fire at the ground and in the air. Darcy and Emily hold hands, both of them shaking violently. Carla holds Emily’s free hand, breathing very quickly. On the other side of Lupin, Gemma holds Hermione to her, both of them slightly pale again. Ron’s jaw is set, his face still green.

When Harry walks out into the enclosure, it strikes her how much smaller he looks than all of the other champions—even Fleur, slight and skinny. _He really is just a boy_ , Darcy thinks. She raises her left hand to her face, covering her mouth, wanting to cover her eyes—not wanting to see Harry get burnt to a crisp, not wanting to see that great tail to hit him, to break him in half. Her friends can’t seem to find it in them to scream for him—all of a sudden, everyone seems a little more frightened, a little less enthusiastic and excited.

Lupin shakes her slightly, and when she looks at him, she can see his lips moving, but she can’t hear a word he’s saying. All of the shouts and cheers and applause and stomping and jeering seem so far away, and Darcy furrows her brow, looking slowly back towards Harry. She sees him hold up his wand to cast a Summoning Charm, sees him inch slowly backwards from the dragon, hovering by her nest of eggs.

_Please let it come_ , Darcy prays. _Please let it come, please let it come_ —

“There!” Emily shrieks in her ear, and all sound returns to Darcy as she watches Harry’s Firebolt speed through the air, faster than any broomstick she’s ever seen—and it speeds right to Harry’s side, waiting for him to take it. He mounts quickly and Darcy screams, unable to keep silent anymore.

“Yes!” she shouts, gasping for breath. “ _Yes_!”

Harry soars over the stands, over Darcy, and he’s smiling at her as he continues up into the sky, moving high above the Horntail’s head. The dragon doesn’t move to follow him, only watches him from the ground, eyes fixed upon him, neck moving every so often to track him. And then, after the longest minute of Darcy’s life, Harry dives towards the ground, towards the Horntail—and as the dragon opens its mouth, flames spouting from its mouth, Harry pulls up, avoiding it narrowly.

“Great Scott, he can _fly_!” Ludo shouts, and Darcy glances at him at the judges table to see him jumping up and down. “Are to watching this, Mr. Krum?”

Darcy releases Emily’s hand, grabbing onto Lupin’s cloak and giving him a shake. “That’s my little brother!” she yells, and Lupin laughs. She looks at Gemma and Ron and Hermione, who looks about to faint. “ _That’s my brother_!”

Harry rises higher again, making to dive once more. The dragon breathes more fire, missing him, but her tail doesn’t miss. Harry’s robes tear and his shoulder is a bloody mass. Darcy screams in earnest, gripping Lupin’s cloak so tightly that her knuckles are white, her fingers cramping. But Harry doesn’t falter. Darcy’s heart is in her throat as Harry continues to circle the dragon, urging it to follow, making her angrier.

Higher and higher, a little bit at a time, avoiding the fire that comes from her mouth, swooping low at times, but always going higher. The dragon stays put, visibly frustrated as Harry continues out of its reach. And as Harry climbs a little bit higher, the dragon succumbs—she spreads her leathery wings, roaring over the deafening crowd, pushing off from the ground to reach for him, but Harry is quicker. He dives once more, her nest unprotected, ripe for the picking. Harry flies inches from the ground, reaching out for the golden egg as if it’s nothing more than a Snitch, and the dragon hasn’t even realized what’s happening—

“Harry Potter’s got the egg! Harry Potter has the egg!”

The stadium is louder than ever. Those who’d given him dirty looks in the corridors are on their feet; Carla and her Hufflepuff friends are some of the first to stand, and Carla pulls Emily up, screaming for Harry. Gemma and Hermione’s arms are wrapped around each other as they jump up and down, Ron beside them wide-eyes and in disbelief. Darcy looks up at Lupin and he looks down at her, and without thinking, she kisses him hard, knocking him backwards into Gemma. Gemma jumps and turns around quickly, smiling at Darcy when she pulls away.

“Let’s go,” Gemma says, reaching across Lupin to take Darcy’s hand. “They’ll be taking him to the first-aid tent.”

With Darcy and Gemma in the lead, the rest of their friends follow close behind, a large party trampling through the woods. When they reach the tent, Madam Pomfrey instructs Gemma to tend to Harry, while the matron hurried over to Cedric in the next cubicle. Gemma grabs a rag and a bowl full of purple potion from the table she’d set her paste on earlier, taking a seat beside Harry as Darcy runs at him, flinging her arms around him.

“Ow, ow, ow— _ow_!” Harry hisses, but when Darcy releases him, he flashes her a winning smile. He looks at everyone crowded around the cot, and Gemma presses the soaked rag to Harry’s shoulder. It smokes and Harry curses under his breath. Gemma pulls it away after a moment and touches her wand to his shoulder. She wipes the blood from his skin and the wound is gone. “Wow. Thanks, Gemma.”

“Yeah, well,” Gemma replies, shaking her head and putting the rag back in the bowl. “As much as it may surprise you, I actually _do_ know what I’m doing.”

“That was amazing, Harry,” Hermione sighs, seating herself at the foot of the cot.

Harry gets to his feet, pacing restlessly, a smile glued to his face, and Darcy’s glad that he allows her to pull him to her chest and kiss the top of his head. She holds him for a moment until he wriggles away from her, resuming his pacing.

Lupin claps a hand on his shoulder, giving him a few pats. “Your father would never have believed it,” he smiles. “The finest flying I’ve ever seen.”

“Darcy taught me to do the Summoning Charm,” Harry tells him quietly, looking to his sister again. “We worked at it all day yesterday.”

“Did she?” Lupin asks, turning to Darcy and giving her such a proud look that it makes butterflies flutter in her stomach. “Look at you, quite the teacher.”

Darcy leans against him. “I learned from the best.”

“That was more exciting than any Quidditch match I’ve ever seen you play,” Emily says, ruffling Harry’s hair.

“You make it hard not to root for you, Harry,” Carla adds. “Show us your earrings, Gemma.”

Gemma obliges, showing Harry her red and gold earrings, and Darcy grins when she sees his cheeks turn pink.

And then, once it’s quiet, Ron steps forward to Darcy’s side. “Harry,” he breathes, still stunned. “Whoever put your name in that goblet, I reckon they’re trying to do you in—”

“And they’re probably crying with shame after such a performance!” Gemma interrupts, making everyone laugh, but Harry and Ron are still watching each other.

Ron looks sheepish again, his ears burning red. “I shouldn’t have—”

But Harry cuts him off. “It’s fine. Forget it.” And they both grin.

“You two are so _stupid_!” Hermione cries, hugging them both.

“I’m so proud of you, Harry,” Darcy smiles, kissing his forehead once more. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

Madam Pomfrey attempts to shuffle them all out, claiming there are too many of them, and Darcy can’t deny it. Gemma stays by Harry’s side, keeping a close eye on him, and Madam Pomfrey allows two others to stay. Emily bids Darcy a teary goodbye, promising to return for another visit soon. Carla is next, running after Emily out of the tent. Darcy smiles at Hermione and Ron as they talk excitedly about the other champions and prepare to see the scores.

“Meet me in my room when you get back to the castle, all of you. I’ll get some butterbeer to celebrate,” Darcy says to Harry, and he nods.

“Go,” he laughs. “Before you start crying. You didn’t cry, did you?”

”I was very, very close,” she says. “But I was more concerned about my oncoming heart attacks to worry about tears. I love you.”

Harry looks around at everyone watching him, waiting for him to answer. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “I love you too.”

Darcy walks Lupin back down to Hogsmeade. They walk slowly, villagers returning to their homes and to reopen their shops. They all bustle past them, and Darcy can hear many talking about Harry’s superb flying. It lightens Darcy’s heart—today had gone perfectly, and Gemma had fixed Harry’s shoulder with such ease, and Harry is all right, is smiling, is alive.

“Do you feel foolish now?” Lupin jokes, grasping her hand. “I told you everything was going to be all right.”

“How long have you been waiting to rub that in my face?” Darcy asks, raising an eyebrow and smirking.

“Ever since Harry successfully summoned his Firebolt.”

“Thank you for coming,” she sighs happily. “I don’t know what I would have done without you here.”

“Hopefully not have kissed someone else in celebration?”

Darcy sees the corners of his lips turn upwards, and she looks away, blushing furiously. “Shut up.”

“Not that I’m complaining, of course,” he continues, slowing his pace. “Anytime you need to kiss someone out of relief, please—let me know.”

Adrenaline surges through Darcy still, and his slow steps make her antsy. Darcy pulls him by the hand towards Hogsmeade, down the busy High Street and towards The Three Broomsticks. But instead of entering the establishment, Darcy drags him down the narrow alleyway in between two buildings. There’s barely enough room to walk side by side, and Lupin staggers after her, laughing breathlessly.

“Darcy, what are you—?”

But Darcy pushes him against the grimy wall of The Three Broomsticks, kissing him again. Her heart is in her throat, her stomach in knots, her head buzzing as if drunk. Her cheeks flush at the thought of her bold gesture, but Lupin doesn’t seem to mind. Darcy breaks the kiss only for a moment, only to murmur, “I love you” against his lips.

“Don’t tease me, kitten,” he says, his voice a low growl, and he rests his forehead against hers.

“Stay, Remus—God, _please_ stay—I’ll sneak you up to the castle—it’ll be easy with your map and the Invisibility Cloak—”

“A tempting offer,” he laughs softly, kissing her temple with less fervor that Darcy hopes for. “You’ll see me again this weekend. But I would not keep you from your brother after accomplishing such a spectacular feat.”

“Celebrate with us,” she rasps, brushing off the front of his cloak, her hands still shaking. “Just one drink to celebrate and then you can go—”

Lupin smiles against her skin as he kisses her neck. “I have a much different idea of how I’d like to celebrate,” he purrs. “One that I wouldn’t be able to walk away from so easily.”

“Don’t go,” she pleads, running her hands through her hair. “Please stay.”

“How does it feel to be the one begging this time?”

“It feels awful,” Darcy admits. 

”Is it wrong of me to want you keep begging?”

Darcy raises an eyebrow, taking his hands in hers and kissing his fingers. “I could get on my knees, if you’d like.”

Lupin hesitates, licking his lips quickly and clearing his throat. “I do love the sight of you on your knees.”

”Is that what you want?” she asks breathlessly.

He sighs heavily, as if refusing her is the hardest thing in the world. “As much as I want to say yes, you should go celebrate, my love,” Lupin says, letting go of her hand and placing his index finger to her chin to tilt her head back. He kisses her lightly on the lips. “And maybe if I’m lucky, it’ll be me you think of when you go to bed.”

“It’s always you,” Darcy whispers, blushing again and kissing him one last time. “Promise you’ll think of me.”

“I always do.”

 


	36. Chapter 36

“What did Sirius say, when you spoke with him?” Darcy asks quietly, staring up at the dark ceiling, one arm tucked behind her head. The moon is growing fuller by the day now, and the light spills through the window and only Darcy’s oversized bed. “You never told me.”

Both of Harry’s hands are tucked behind his head as he watches the shadows shift on the ceiling. He’d come knocking on Darcy’s door around midnight, alone and hidden underneath the Invisibility Cloak. Harry had apologized profusely to his sister for not coming right away, explaining that the other Gryffindors were eager to celebrate with food, drink, and lots of smiles. Darcy understood, of course, and she knows that Harry’s spent too much time feeling isolated, and she’s glad that the other students have changed their minds about him. He said he’d escaped under the pretense of visiting the kitchens for more food, and no one had questioned it.

“He asked if you were coming,” Harry says, and Darcy sees him frown in the moonlight. “And when I told him you weren’t able to make it, he got kind of weird. He asked me if I knew about you and Lupin, and I told him yes, that he’d spoken to me about it back in June, that he’d asked me if it was okay for him to—god, he said it so weird—”

Darcy giggles, blushing at the thought.

“Anyway, I told Sirius that Lupin is good to you and I’m okay with it,” Harry finishes, giving Darcy a small smile. “And Sirius didn’t say much, but he said he only cares about you and only wants the best for you. He seemed upset.”

It gives Darcy some perverted sense of satisfaction to know Sirius feels slightly remorseful for what he had said and done. Of course, Darcy wants to apologize to him, as well—she wants Sirius to know that she hadn’t meant any of it, that she wants him to be here for her, that she wants him to care for her and love her and kiss her and hold her. And maybe Sirius will never be completely all right with the idea that she’s involved with his boyhood friend—with her father’s boyhood friend—but he has to accept that Lupin is kind to her, and he loves her and cares about her, and doesn’t she deserve that much? Surely Sirius will be able to recognize that separating them will only cause Darcy more hurt?

“Remus asked me to stay with him during Christmas break.” She sighs heavily, wishing things could be easier. If only Lupin could stay here with her—Darcy had thought that’s how it would be, that they’d be able to take meals together and fall asleep next to each other every night in a room that they share. She hadn’t anticipated such an exciting end to the school year, hadn’t anticipated Snape outing Lupin in a fit of pettiness and anger, hadn’t anticipated Lupin to leave. “But I told him—I can’t.”

“What? Why not?” Harry sits up, making Darcy’s side of the bed shift beneath her. “Could I come, too? Spend Christmas with the both of you?”

“Wh—really?” Darcy sits up, as well, pulling her knees to her chest. “You really want to?”

Harry nods. “Why would you want to stay here for Christmas when you could spend it with Lupin?”

Darcy looks away, holding her knees to her still. “Well, it’s just that—we’ve always spent Christmas together.”

“You know that there are other Christmases, don’t you?” Harry laughs. “And besides, once I’m out of Hogwarts, we can spend Christmas wherever and with whoever we want for the rest of our lives. If Lupin wants you for Christmas, I’m not going to force you to stay here.”

She smiles weakly. “This is difficult for me, Harry,” she tells him, sniffling. “Sometimes I think that—maybe I’m not ready to give Remus what he wants, but I don’t want to be alone. It’s just—it’s overwhelming sometimes.”

Harry doesn’t answer, but watches her closely in the darkness.

“I don’t deserve him,” she whispers. “I’ll never be good enough for him, but no one has ever taken care of me like he does.”

Harry sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you all those years.”

And in spite of everything, Darcy smiles. Tears prickle painfully in her eyes, and she reaches out to touch Harry’s face. She combs his hair out of his face, brushing her thumb lightly over the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. “It should have been me,” she breathes, lowering her hand. “I’m proud of you, Harry, and I’m proud of all the things you’ve done.”

“I couldn’t have done them without you,” he replies, shrugging. He rubs his scar with his index finger. “I would never wish this upon you, Darcy. I know it wasn’t easy for you, but if there is one thing I am happy to do for you, it’s bearing this scar on my forehead instead of yours.”

Darcy wipes her eyes before the tears begin to fall. She pulls Harry to her and kisses his forehead. “Go on,” she tells him, chuckling. “Before your friends wonder where you’ve run off to.”

* * *

As November turns into December and the weather begins to worsen—sleeting most of the time and making the dungeon classroom colder than ever—Darcy finds that she’s happier than she’s been in a while. Even when Snape shows her a photograph in the _Daily Prophet_ of she and Lupin kissing after Harry had collected his golden egg (which, upon being opened in her presence, had shrieked so loudly that she thought she was going to lose her hearing), set above a small article that Darcy had waved away. Even when the dozen post owls delivered her a dozen letters, Darcy hadn’t opened a single one. She’d brought them down to Snape’s frigid classroom, started a fire in the hearth, and tossed them all into the flames without a second thought.

Yet, despite the article coming out, students seem more interested in her as of late, no doubt because of Harry’s performance during the first task. It shows in classes—students asking Darcy for help when Snape refuses them, young students giggling with her about her and Lupin, older students reliving the first task with her. One first year Gryffindor calls her ‘Professor Potter’ in class one day, which the other Gryffindors gladly take up, and eventually the other Ravenclaws in the class. It only makes Darcy smile, and the first day it happens, she turns to Snape and teases, “They like me more than you.”

Even Snape seems more comfortable with her presence than he has been for a while. They walk down to the classroom together after mealtimes, and Snape let’s Darcy chatter away about anything and everything without interrupting her once. Darcy finds that she quite likes these little moments they share, for it’s not often she can talk however much her heart desires without someone trying to talk over her.

Even Lupin notices her sudden change in personality, deciding to bring it up Friday night, with Darcy seated on the bathroom sink, a towel still wrapped around her and her hair still soaking wet. He stands between her legs, allowing Darcy to drag a razor up his neck, cutting away at the coarse hair he’d let grow in for far too long.

“It’s good to see you not weighed down with anxiety,” he mutters, trying not to move his lips too much. Darcy rinses the razor before putting it to his skin again. “Ouch!”

Darcy pulls her hands away from him quickly, looking up into his eyes. “I’m sorry!”

“I’m only joking,” he laughs. “Keep going.”

She gives him a cold look, but continues. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea to tease me when I have a razor so close to your throat.”

“If I didn’t trust you with a razor to my throat, I wouldn’t have let you do it.”

“You’re just getting lazy,” she jokes softly. “Next you’ll be asking me to make your bed and cook you breakfast—oh! You already do.”

“I only asked you to cook this morning so I could admire the sight of you wearing absolutely nothing while serving me breakfast,” he admits, but Darcy shushes him as the razor slides across his cheek, close to his lips.

“I was happy to do it. You need only ask, you know—you don’t have to play the part of a wounded animal just for some breakfast,” she answers sweetly, shaving the last bit of hair on his face. She rinses the razor in the sink and wipes his face off with a hand towel, kissing him. “You could use a haircut, too.”

“Maybe next time,” he says, helping her down from the sink and letting Darcy kiss his cleanly shaven face over and over again. Lupin chuckles, her lips peppering his cheeks, his nose and forehead, his jaw, with chaste kisses. “It’s nice to see you happy, my love.” He pushes her wet hair out of her face.

Darcy pulls away from him, smiling weakly. She has to admit, since the first task, things have gotten slightly easier. A weight had been lifted off her shoulders and she can _breathe_ again. But eventually, the second task will come, and if dragons were the first task, what could the second be? And there’s still the question of who put Harry’s name forth. Though she has to admit—now, in this moment, she’s happy, and Darcy won’t let her childish fears and doubts ruin that, as they so often do.

Lupin’s fingers lightly trace the violent scars on her shoulder, his eyes fixed on her face. Darcy takes his wrist, moving his hand from her shoulder and kissing his fingertips. He smiles at her.

“I am happy,” she whispers. “I love you.” Darcy brushes his wet hair back out of his face, touching his smooth cheek. “Are you going to have your way with me now? Or must I beg?”

Lupin smiles, wrapping his arms around her. “Well,” he sighs, tugging at the towel around her. “If you insist…”

Perhaps the biggest surprise comes one night while Harry, Hermione, and Ron decide to take dinner in Darcy’s room. Hermione rages about Rita Skeeter—she tells Darcy tearfully about Rita coming to their Care of Magical Creatures class, asking Hagrid for an interview (“And you know that she’ll just put words in his mouth and twist everything that he does say! I mean, look at what she did to you and Harry! And she outed Professor Lupin and I just—I _hate_ her!”). Darcy can’t argue with that, thinking that Hermione is very much right, but she offers a feeble, “It’ll be fine. Hagrid can handle his own.”

Privately, Darcy thinks that maybe an interview with Rita Skeeter may do some good to their completely broken friendship. Since the news had broken about Darcy and Lupin, Hagrid doesn’t ever seem to be in a talking mood—or a smiling one. In fact, Hagrid rarely ever looks her in the eyes, and she curses him silently for caring so much as to who she’s with. But Darcy also thinks that Rita Skeeter may ruin an unsuspecting, trusting man such as Hagrid, and her heart goes out to him. She promises Hermione to send a letter to Emily at the _Daily Prophet_ , warning her about a possibly article that must be stopped. She’s sure there’s nothing that can be done, but she’ll feel nice for at least trying.

Harry keeps glancing around anxiously, and every time that Darcy asks him what he’s waiting for, Harry’s eyes flick back down to his plate and he tries to keep a smile from his face. “Nothing,” he says, each and every single time.

But about fifteen minutes later, there’s a loud _CRACK_! and Darcy screams, jumping to her feet and pulling her wand out of her back pocket. Ron wrestles her wand out of her hand, laughing. “Darcy, it’s fine—it’s fine—”

There’s a house-elf standing directly in front of Darcy, eyes large and shiny, the size of tennis balls. He’s smiling, hands held behind his shabby and stained shift, and he rocks backwards and forwards on his feet. Darcy shakes her head, running a hand through her hair and snatching her wand back from Ron. “Dobby, you can’t just scare me like—wait—” And Darcy does a double take, her eyes running up and down the small elf. “ _Dobby_? But what are you doing here?”

“Darcy Potter,” Dobby answers squeakily, bowing gracefully. She reaches out a hand for the elf, and Dobby takes it with both of his small and slender fingers. “Dobby is so happy to see you! Professor Dumbledore got Dobby a job, Darcy Potter! Paid and everything, and Harry Potter and his friends came to visit Dobby and Winky down in the kitchens just the other day, and Dobby heard that Darcy was here.”

“Winky?” Darcy asks, leading Dobby over to the sofa and helping him scramble up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who Winky is. Is she a friend of yours?”

“Winky was Mr. Crouch’s house-elf,” Hermione explains quickly. “She was at the Quidditch World Cup. When the Dark Mark was cast, Winky was found with Harry’s wand, and Mr. Crouch gave her clothes. I mean—it’s good that she’s here now, but he didn’t want people to think that Winky—”

“He thinks a house-elf cast the Dark Mark?” Darcy frowns, looking quickly at Dobby. He only looks sad. “Well, I’m really glad to see you, Dobby. But—please don’t scare me like that anymore.”

As soon as Dobby disappears from Darcy’s room, Hermione subjects her to a long and heated conversation about S.P.E.W., and Darcy promises half-heartedly that she’ll pass the message along to Lupin the next time she sees him.

That following Thursday, before Darcy and Gemma begin the trek down to Hogsmeade to take dinner at The Three Broomsticks, Dumbledore requests a private word, promising to be quick and to the point. There’s a smile on his face when he approaches Darcy outside the hospital wing, so Darcy doesn’t worry too much, but she feels she has an idea what’s coming. Madam Pomfrey retreats into her office and Gemma promises to wait by the front doors, leaving the Headmaster and Darcy alone in the infirmary.

He gestures for Darcy to sit, so she takes a seat on the edge of the nearest bed. Dumbledore sits at the foot. “Did you enjoy the first task?” Dumbledore asks politely, his eyes twinkling, holding his hands in his lap.

“I think I enjoyed it much more after it was over, sir,” Darcy admits, and the two of them share a laugh. The thought of Harry racing around on his Firebolt while avoiding a dragon’s fire still makes adrenaline surge through her veins.

“He was wonderful,” Dumbledore nods, smiling all the while. “He truly is your father’s son.”

Darcy agrees, even though she remembers so little of her father. “Professor Dumbledore, I owe you an apology. I should never have said those things to you the night Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire.”

“Thank you, Darcy,” he says. “Your apology is much appreciated. I understand that you were angry and upset and frightened.”

An awkward silence hangs over them for a moment. Dumbledore continues to look at her, smiling, and Darcy looks away, eyes darting all over the hospital wing. She rubs the back of her neck, clearing her throat.

“I have some news that I think you will enjoy,” Dumbledore begins, but Darcy speaks quickly and excitedly, cutting him off.

“Is the Yule Ball, sir? Professor Snape told the Slytherins today.” Darcy blushes, sorry for interrupting him, but Dumbledore doesn’t seem annoyed. “I’m sorry, it’s just—er—” She blushes harder.

“Exciting?” Dumbledore supplies, making Darcy smile again. “I understand.”

Snape hadn’t even told Darcy until he announced it to his first class, and Darcy had to ask him to repeat himself. It had seemed so absurd—a ball. She had pictured large dresses too tight to breathe in, extravagant masks—something out of Gemma’s world. But the idea intrigued her, just as it intrigued many other girls throughout the day. It was romantic, and a perfect opportunity to sneak Lupin up to her room afterwards.

“I must ask you once again, as I always do,” Dumbledore continues, giving her a curious look. “Have you been kind to Professor Snape, Darcy?”

“Yes, sir.” She thinks it’s the truth.

“Good,” is all Dumbledore says to that. Darcy imagines he believes her, else he would have brought something to her attention. His face becomes more serious, and he inhales deeply, considering her. “I detest that I must ask this of you, because I know that it is not fair—”

Darcy understands right away, without having the hear the rest of his sentence. Her face falls and she tucks some hair behind her ears. “Remus can’t come, is that it?” She can’t say it’s an unreasonable request, especially after what had appeared in the Daily Prophet, and considering the terms on which he’d left the previous summer. Now all she can think of is Lupin spending another Christmas alone, and it breaks her heart. “What if I decide I don’t want to go to the Yule Ball?”

“There’s no rule saying you _must_ attend,” Dumbledore chuckles. “It’s entirely up to you whether or not you stay here for Christmas. If you do choose to attend, I see no reason as to why Miss Smythe may not accompany you.”

She stares down at her feet, hating herself for letting this upset her so.

Dumbledore looks sad, and it hurts Darcy even more. “Did you read the letters, Darcy?”

Hesitating, Darcy sighs. “Yes,” she admits. “They were—horrifying. Disgusting.”

Dumbledore purses his lips. “It is better for someone like Remus to lay low. Bringing him here for the Yule Ball will not be good for him,” he tells her gently. “I have forbidden Rita Skeeter from coming onto the grounds again, but Rita Skeeter has been known for not following rules. And I have also written a strongly worded letter to Barnabas Cuffe requesting that he let Miss Emily Duncan take over the covering of the Triwizard Tournament, who would be most welcome at Hogwarts to do her research.”

Darcy smiles again, looking up at him. “You’d do that, sir?”

He gets to his feet, holding out a hand to pull Darcy up. “We’ll talk again. I will not keep you from Miss Smythe any longer,” Dumbledore says, opening the door for her to leave the hospital wing. “Have a good night, Darcy.”

When Darcy finally tells Gemma about the Yule Ball, seated in a warm corner of the The Three Broomsticks, she nearly shrieks. She clutched Darcy’s arm across the table, a wide grin on her thin face. “How fun, Darcy!” she exclaims, sighing happily. “And Dumbledore said I could come? That’s so nice of him—but I can’t, Darcy. I’ll help you find something to wear, though—I bet you’ll look absolutely beautiful—I’ve never seen you dress up before. You’ll have to show me, or take a picture. I can lend you some jewelry if you’d like—or I have a few dresses you can look through. I’ll bring them by next week. Is Lupin coming?”

Darcy squirms uncomfortably as Madam Rosmerta places two cups of hot butterbeer down in front of them. “That’s what Dumbledore wanted to talk to me about,” she says. “He’d rather Remus not come.”

“Oh,” Gemma frowns. “Are you going to be with him over Christmas, then? My parents make a big deal about Christmas, or else I’d ask if you wanted to do something. They’re throwing a party to raise money for St Mungo’s.”

“I don’t know,” she admits, blushing. “He asked me to stay with him, but Harry—”

“Darcy!”

Darcy and Gemma jump, looking over to find Ludo Bagman walking quickly towards them. Gemma puts on a wide smile, while Darcy’s smile is forced. “Mr. Bagman.” She gets to her feet, holding out her hand for Ludo to take. He kisses her fingers, and Darcy feels unusually powerful watching him bow his head to do so. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Did you get the flowers?” he asks quickly, releasing his hand.

“I did. They were very beautiful.”

Ludo smiles warmly, glancing at Gemma and giving her an acknowledging nod. “May I join you? Just for one drink—things to do, details to finalize for the Yule Ball—I’m sure you’ve heard?”

“I just found out today,” Darcy replies, taking her seat again. “Please, sit.”

Ludo sits without having to be asked twice. He holds a hand out for Gemma, giving hers a polite squeeze. “Quidditch World Cup, I believe—I’m so sorry, my dear, what was the name?”

“Gemma.”

“Of course, of course—my apologies, Gemma. I see so many faces every day, especially when you’re in the line of work I’m in.”

Gemma continues to smile at him. Darcy chuckles—she’s sure Gemma sees many more faces per day than Ludo Bagman does, but both girls keep quiet.

“Darcy, I have to say _something_ about it—your brother really can fly!” Ludo squeaks, shaking his head, his eyes wide. “He could be the next Viktor Krum, you know. And only fourteen—it really was an amazing show he put on. And to be the _quickest_ champion to get the egg! Gemma, my dear, did you see it?”

“I did,” Gemma answers. “Harry’s always been very talented on a broomstick, much to his sister’s dismay.”

“I’ll have you know, darling,” Ludo says to Darcy. “I did offer Harry help… however, he wasn’t very interested in the slightest. Brushed me off, he did.”

Darcy laughs. Harry had told her about Ludo’s willingness to help, but Darcy hadn’t told her brother that it was for her that he’d been offering. “Thank you.”

“Amazing… truly amazing… listen, Darcy, I wanted to ask you about this Yule Ball,” Ludo continues, moving slightly closer to Darcy. She knows whatever is going to come out of his mouth will not be good, but she nods politely, waiting for whatever it is he must needs ask. “I know that I’m likely not your first choice, but I thought the two of us might go together—Darcy Potter, and on her arm, former Quidditch star, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and Triwizard Tournament judge, Ludovic Bagman!”

Darcy and Gemma meet eyes for a split second, and Gemma’s eyebrows are raised to her hairline, waiting for Darcy’s answer. “Er—that’s very kind of you, Mr. Bagman.” Darcy clears her throat, taking a long drink of her butterbeer, but Ludo doesn’t look away from her, nor does he stop smiling. “It’s just—I’m—well, I’m with Remus, and—”

“A sorry thing that Remus can’t come—”

“How did you know that Remus can’t come?” Darcy asks him sharply.

Ludo waves her off. “Never mind that, Darcy,” he scoffs, but Darcy narrows her eyes. “If you’d like some good press instead of the disgusting articles that have been circulating about you, then agreeing to be my date may help. Just for the one night, and then you’re free to go.”

“Thank you, but—I haven’t decided whether or not I’m going, and—”

“I understand,” Ludo says seriously, putting a gentle hand on Darcy’s arm. He gets to his feet, smiling once more at Gemma. “Think on my offer, and get back to me. Goodnight, Darcy.”

As soon as Ludo is out of earshot, Gemma leans in over the table. “But you must say yes,” she urges. “Think of the power you’d have over Ludo. Get a few drinks in him, dance with him for a little, let him kiss your hand once or twice—I bet you could get _anything_ out of him.”

Darcy hesitates, considering it. Gemma’s right—at least, Darcy thinks so. Ludo Bagman is, for a certainty, a complete fool, and may be willing to give Darcy a hint about the second task, or maybe he’d give her other information—information on the other judges, information about who might have put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire. “I’ll think about it,” is all she can promise.

It isn’t until Saturday, when Lupin arrives in Hogsmeade to have his monthly examination by Gemma, that the Yule Ball the first thing on Darcy’s mind again. It seems that Lupin shares the same line of thinking as Dumbledore, though he does sound bitter about it. The idea of Darcy looking so beautiful does appeal to him, however, and he and Gemma tease her about it for a few minutes until her face can get no redder.

“I’m sure Carla would go with you,” Lupin shrugs, allowing Gemma to roll his sleeve up to feel around for his pulse. It makes Darcy feel guilty, not offering to spend Christmas with him, but he’d told her it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and if it was terribly boring, he’d leave the light on for her. “You’ve plenty of options. Harry or Hermione—”

“She doesn’t need to look for a date,” Gemma tells him, pressing her fingers into Lupin’s wrist. “Ludo Bagman’s already asked her to be his date.”

Lupin looks quickly at Darcy, and Gemma cackles.

“I didn’t expect that to make your heart rate spike so much,” she jokes, releasing his wrist. “Are you _that_ jealous? Of _Ludo Bagman?_ ”

“No, I’m not jealous,” Lupin snaps. “But he can’t just—just—go and ask _my_ girl to be his date to a ball. He knows you’re mine—”

Gemma bends over a blank piece of parchment on the table, picking up a quill and dipping the tip dramatically in ink before writing quickly. “Especially possessive and jealous…”

“Do _not_ write that!” Lupin hisses at Gemma, color flooding his cheeks. He gives Darcy a very accusing stare, and she raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to say yes, are you?”

Darcy hesitates, opening and closing her mouth stupidly, looking for Gemma for help that she knows will not come. “Well, I thought—maybe to amuse him,” she answers, and Lupin quickly looks away, scowling. “To see if there’s any information he’ll give me—”

“Fine,” Lupin continues, ignoring her. “I suppose Ludo Bagman is a much more suitable date for Darcy Potter than a werewolf, isn’t he?”

The room is quiet for a moment, and Gemma breaks the silence, shuffling around, cleaning up her things and accidentally spilling an ink bottle in the process. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She rushes out without so much as a goodbye, slamming the door shut behind her.

“It’s not like that,” Darcy murmurs, getting to her feet from the loveseat and wrapping her arms around herself. She’s suddenly ashamed.

“Right,” Lupin growls. “You’d rather spend Christmas at Ludo Bagman’s side instead of mine, is that it?”

“Remus,” Darcy frowns, willing herself not to cry. “It’s not like that. If it upsets you so much, then I’ll—I’ll be with you for Christmas. I want to—I wish you could come so badly—”

“I asked you to come home for Christmas,” he reminds her in a low, harsh voice. “And you told me you couldn’t. Please, don’t come home just because you feel bad for me now.”

“Stop saying that.”

“What?”

“ _Home_ ,” she answers breathlessly, rubbing her tear-filled eyes. “Hogwarts is my home, and it has been for over seven years.”

Lupin doesn’t answer for a long time, and Darcy has to look away from his face. He frowns, his expression pained and hurt, and Darcy covers her face, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Why are you crying?” he finally asks her, his tone slightly gentler than it had been mere minutes ago.

“You think that after coming into my life just over a year ago, I’d give up everything I have?” Darcy lowers her hands from her face, forcing herself to look into Lupin’s face. “I have a brother who needs me, and who I need. I have my friends, who love me, and who I love. Hogwarts, the place that has been my home since I was eleven-years-old—you think that it is so easy for me to just forget all those years that they were here for me and you weren’t?”

“I never asked you to give up anything for me,” Lupin counters. “Anything you have given up, you have done willingly—”

“Because I love you,” Darcy interrupts, wiping her cheeks, wishing he’d do it himself. “And I do not blame you, but please understand that I had built a life before you came back to me, and it is hard to turn away from that life—from the life that has brought me some of the happiest moments I can remember.” But it sounds childish and wrong—all he had asked of her was to spend Christmas with him, and that’s not such a terrible request, is it? So why is it so damn hard for her to just agree to do just that? Spending so much time with him would surely be a blessing—an escape from all that has happened recently. “I’m not ready to—to build a new life quite yet.”

“I’m not asking you to—to _marry_ me,” he says, sighing heavily, his cheeks still pink. Darcy knows he’s frustrated, she can see it in the way he grinds his jaw. “I just want you for more than two days at a time. Darcy, I miss you when I fall asleep by myself, and I miss you when I wake up to an empty bed. I _ache_ for you, love. And two days a week is two more days than I ever thought I would have, but…” He trails off and Darcy finishes his sentence for him.

“It’s not enough.”

Lupin pauses, shifting uncomfortably. “I want you to be happy, more than anything. But I also want to be able to love you whenever I want, to touch you whenever I want, to talk to you whenever I want, and not have to think and worry about sneaking into Hogwarts to see you.”

“What would you have me do?” Darcy asks, unsure if she wants to hear the answer. “If you want me to stay with you over Christmas, then I will.”

“I don’t want you to be with me because I’ve guilted you into it,” Lupin frowns, taking a few steps forward. He puts his hands on her shoulders, kissing her head and pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m not asking you to leave Hogwarts to come live with me for the rest of your life. I’m just—just think on what I’ve said, all right? Please?”

“Okay.”

Lupin smiles at her, his hands moving to her face, to cup her cheeks in his palms, to brush away her tears with his thumbs. “At least take a picture before you go to the ball,” he whispers, making Darcy smile up at him.

“For you, I will.”

“Clothed or unclothed, it makes no matter—or both, if you’re feeling particularly generous.” He kisses her, a sweet kiss on the lips. “After all, it would make a fine Christmas present.”

 


	37. Chapter 37

The week before term ends, the entire castle undergoes a drastic change. Christmas decorations have been put up—trees line the Great Hall and sit in every classroom; suits of armor sing Christmas carols to passerby in low voices that echo through the corridors; icicles hang from the railings on the marble staircase; and teachers become more lenient and easy-going (all but Snape, that is). Darcy’s always admired Hogwarts at Christmas time, but now she wishes the decorations would just go away. With the Yule Ball now the talk of every student in the school—even the younger ones unable to go themselves—Ludo Bagman seems to have only become more interested in pursuing Darcy. With Lupin staying down in Hogsmeade for the full moon, Ludo’s taken every opportunity to meet her in The Three Broomsticks. Each time he asks her if she’s given his proposal any thought, Darcy quickly mutters a hasty excuse and hurries upstairs.

The fifth time Ludo asks Darcy, she slams the door of Lupin’s rented room behind her, throwing her cloak down onto the floor and throwing herself onto the sofa beside Lupin. He looks at her for a long time, startled, and Darcy turns to him, arms crossed across her chest. Lupin closes his book slowly.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” she snaps. Each time Darcy had told Lupin about Ludo’s checking in on her, he’d ground his jaw, scowling.

“I’ve been thinking, Darcy,” Lupin says. He thinks for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe—maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go with Ludo Bagman. It would be a good opportunity to see what he knows. He’s taken with you, and it’s hard for a man to refuse a pretty girl anything.”

Darcy frowns, seeing the shame written across his face. “Gemma talked to you, didn’t she?”

Lupin sighs, running a hand through his hair, nodding. “Gemma talked to me.” While Darcy considers him, he takes advantage of her silence. “I know you’re getting restless not knowing who put Harry’s name in, and I trust you know what you’re doing. But we need to talk about it first.”

And they do, on the second to last day of term, with a bottle of wine split between Darcy, Lupin, and Gemma. With Lupin seeming much healthier than usual so close to the full moon, there’s much less snapping between he and Gemma than usual, something that Darcy is grateful for. The potion she’s worked on seems to do wonders for him. While in Emily’s presence, the arguing and snapping is very one-sided and he doesn’t react so strongly, Lupin isn’t afraid to lash out at Gemma when he feels she’s toed the line, no matter how unwarranted his anger may be.

“What exactly are you looking to get out of Ludo?” Lupin asks her, topping off Darcy’s glass. “What kind of information do you think he knows?”

“Anything,” Darcy answers, looking from Lupin to Gemma and back again. “About the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup, or Harry’s name being put into the Goblet of Fire, or about Karkaroff—”

“I’ve told you,” Gemma interrupts, lowering her wine glass from her lips. “Karkaroff wouldn’t have done that. I’ve heard others say that he’d be the first to run if You-Know-Who returned. He gave names to the Ministry to avoid Azkaban—not because he would be leaving anything behind, but because he was a coward.”

“Ron keeps saying it was Karkaroff,” Darcy argues—a weak and feeble argument, and Gemma knows it.

“Ron’s a fourteen-year-old boy who, for the past month, thought that Harry put his own name in, or that you did.”

“He was only jealous,” Darcy frowns, looking back at Lupin to avoid Gemma’s eyes. “Ron wanted to be in the tournament. You know he competes with all of those siblings at home…”

“Regardless, Ludo isn’t likely to just give you any information,” Lupin continues. They all take a moment to drink, thinking everything over. “You need to be subtle, or else he’ll realize what you’re up to, and you’ll never get anything out of him again.”

“It’s all a game,” Gemma tells her. “And Ludo Bagman plays it well. Just be the Darcy Potter that he wants you to be. Be the beautiful girl on his arm, take a few pictures with him, dance with him and let him kiss you on the cheek a few times. Lull him into a false sense of security and then go for it.”

Lupin shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. “Don’t let him kiss you on the cheek.”

“Would you rather she let him kiss her on the mouth? Or somewhere you _really_ wouldn’t like him to kiss?”

“Are you done?” Lupin hisses, and Darcy drains her glass as the two of them bicker about where Ludo Bagman should be allowed to touch Darcy and how much what lengths she should go to extract information out of him. Gemma then talks about what kind of dress she should wear—one that possibly shows a little more skin than usual, to which Lupin vehemently argues against, claiming that Ludo Bagman doesn’t deserve to or need to be charmed with Darcy’s body.

“It’s the best weapon a woman has,” Gemma protests, slamming a palm on the table. “And Darcy should put it to use. Do you know how much information I’ve gotten out of boys just by giving them a sweet kiss? Or by promising them a touch over the clothes? Men are weak, easily tempted, and none more so than Ludo Bagman.”

“Maybe he’d be tempted with money, or more power,” Lupin growls. “But certainly not with sex, and certainly not with such a young girl.”

“You were,” Gemma says flatly, taking a long drink from her glass and watching him over the rim. “You were tempted by sex and a young girl, were you not?”

Lupin clenches his jaw, his grip on his wine glass tightening. Darcy holds her head in her hands, irritated by the both of them. “Careful, Gemma,” he snarls, his tone dangerous. “I like you, but watch your tongue.”

“I’m not going to have to fuck Ludo Bagman,” Darcy interjects angrily, rubbing her temples. “So would you stop arguing about it?”

Lupin and Gemma stop and look at each other, both having the grace to look slightly ashamed. Lupin rubs his face, sighing, clearly not enjoying the idea. “Just make sure that man keeps his hands to himself.”

Ignoring him completely, Gemma takes over the conversation. “Listen, Darcy, I’ve been doing this for years at my parents’ parties for years…”

Darcy is amazed at how long Lupin and Gemma talk for. She hadn’t thought this plan would be so intricate, so detailed, so _complicated_. How hard was it really supposed to be to get a few secrets out of Ludo Bagman? He had already eagerly given Darcy secrets before—little things, eager to see her excitement build before giving it up. But the last time she’d tried, when Darcy had asked him about the first task, Ludo had been angry with her, short and unsmiling.

They go over everything they know about Ludo Bagman. Both Lupin and Gemma have the same level of knowledge about him it seems, but neither can ever agree on the exact details. Lupin is concerned about Ludo Bagman possibly telling someone _else_ that Darcy had been asking questions. Gemma tells her that she needs to word her questions in a way that will also stroke his ego and fuel his pride. Lupin thinks Darcy would get more out of him by playing the part of an innocent girl frightened for her little brother, but Gemma thinks Darcy needs to play the part the role Ludo Bagman wants her to play for the Minister—elegant, well-spoken, a professional. Lupin thinks Darcy should be more honest about her intentions, should things go sour, so Ludo will just blame her outspokenness on her naivety; Gemma thinks it better to be careful about what she says so things don’t go sour in the first place.

The three of them go through two bottles of wine, during which Darcy rarely speaks. When all possible scenarios are covered, Gemma bids them goodnight and returns home. Darcy sits at the table for a long time afterwards, her head throbbing. Lupin rubs at the rough shadow growing in on his face.

“I don’t have to do this,” Darcy tells him softly. “If it upsets you so much, I won’t. I—hadn’t realized it would be so—detailed.”

Lupin smiles weakly at her. “I don’t deserve you,” he slurs. “There are much better men out there than me.”

“But I love you.”

“Tell me that you’re mine,” he whispers. “Tell me I shouldn’t be worried about losing you.”

Darcy frowns, shaking her head slightly. “I’m yours,” she says. “And you are mine.”

When she finally stumbles into the common room of The Three Broomsticks later that evening, shortly after Lupin had bent Darcy over the table and marked her with love bites while pounding into her, her head is foggy and confused and she’s still slightly aroused. Her hair is a tangled mess still, lips swollen from how hard he’d kissed her, cheeks flushed, thighs still shaky.

Ludo sees her immediately.

“Darcy… I was wondering…”

“Yes,” she says blankly. “I’ll go to the Yule Ball with you.”

“You’ll—?” Ludo blinks in surprise. “I only wanted to ask you if you’d like to join me for a drink, but what a wonderful surprise!” He claps a hand on her shoulder, as if to steer her towards the bar, and she doesn’t fail to notice that he recoils slightly upon feeling the scars through the thin fabric of her shirt. They look at each other for a long time, but neither pursue it. Ludo lowers his voice, putting a smile on his face. “Join me, Darcy.”

“I should be getting back to the castle,” Darcy replies, throwing her cloak over her shoulders and fastening it. “Maybe tomorrow. I’ll be down to see Remus again.”

“Right.” Ludo rocks nervously back and forth on his feet for a moment, clearing his throat. “It’s almost full moon, I’ve noticed—”

“Don’t worry about him, Mr. Bagman,” Darcy tells him with a small smile. “He’s not dangerous.”

* * *

_My dearest, Darcy—  
_

_I’m sorry to have missed you in the fire. I had hoped you would be there. I have so much I want to say to you._

_Be at Remus’s the Saturday before term starts. I’ll be there whether he likes it or not. If I don’t show up, it’s because there’s trouble. But I’ll make it a point to be there._

_Harry told me about the dragon, but I’d like to hear it from you, as well. I know it must be tempting to relax after the first task, but there are still two more. Make sure Harry doesn’t get complacent. He’ll need your help._

_As always, keep your eyes open, and send word at the first sign of something out of the ordinary._

_All of my love,_

_Sirius_

“Come on, Darcy, can’t you go with me? You’d be a better date than who Harry got to go with me…”

“That’s not nice. I told you, Ron,” Darcy replies shortly, looking up from the letter she’s reread a hundred times already. “I can’t go with you. And besides, I’m already going with someone else.”

“Who?” Ron asks skeptically. “You told us Lupin wasn’t allowed to come.”

“Don’t mind him,” Hermione snaps from beside Darcy, inching away from Ron and closer to Darcy. “Ron finds it hard to believe that girls like us can find dates, isn’t that right? You know he asked Fleur Delacour?”

“You did?” Darcy laughs, and then narrows her eyes. “Wait—what is that supposed to mean? ‘Girls like us’—”

“Who are you going with, Darcy?” Harry asks, his voice firm.

The room quiets, and Darcy looks at her brother curiously. “Ludo Bagman,” she answers stiffly. “He’s been—persistent. It was his idea. Who are _you_ going with, Hermione?”

Hermione gives Darcy a lingering look, her cheeks turning pink. “They’ll just make fun of me.” But Darcy smiles at her, curious, wondering if she’ll be able to get a real answer without Harry and Ron around.

Harry cuts the girls off with a scoff. Darcy folds her letter back up, throwing it on the coffee table and putting her feet up. “Why are you going with Ludo Bagman?” he asks again.

“Why does it matter so much to you who I’m going with?” Darcy shoots back, sitting up.

Harry’s seated on the floor, his back to the fire. He holds his knees to his chest. Hesitating, he shrugs. “Is Lupin okay with that?” His tone is perhaps a little harsh, but he looks apologetic.

“Yes,” Darcy says, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’s fine with it. We talked about it.” She squirms uncomfortably on the sofa, trying to look casual.

Truthfully, Darcy doesn’t believe Lupin’s completely all right with the idea, but he’s accepted it and she knows that he trusts her. And since the day Darcy had told Ludo Bagman she’d be his date, neither she nor Lupin have done much talking about it at all. If she’s being honest, Gemma had been right in journaling Lupin’s—for lack of a better word—animalistic behaviors. The evening following their planning session with Gemma, it was near painful walking all the way back to the castle, yet every step had filled her with a desire to turn around and go back to him. The third evening, Darcy’s lips had been sore from kissing him so hard and so much. The fourth evening, sitting had been a grueling task. The fifth evening, Darcy had admitted sheepishly she needed a break, hating herself for saying it. But Lupin had smiled at her and apologized sincerely, littered every inch of her with soft and sweet kisses, and gave the lightest touches she’d ever known.

“Darcy?”

“What?” Darcy blushes fiercely, not having realized she’d been so distracted by the memory. She looks around to find everyone looking at her with raised eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” Hermione says, getting to her feet, smiling. “The sun’s going down, Darcy. You should get down to Hogsmeade before it gets dark.”

Harry and Ron follow her awkwardly to the door, but Darcy calls Hermione back. She closes the door on the boys, smiling at Darcy still. “Hermione, who are you going to the Yule Ball with?” Darcy whispers, knowing very well Harry and Ron are probably listening at the door.

Hermione blushes, taking a few steps closer to Darcy. It takes her a minute to get the words out. “Viktor Krum,” she answers softly.

Darcy blinks in surprise, her face blank. “Holy shit,” she mutters, as Hermione lets herself out. “I have to tell Gemma.”

* * *

“No fucking way.”

“I’m telling you.”

“I have never been more proud of her than in this moment.” Gemma chuckles. “Did you tell her to knock off that S.P.E.W. shit?”

“No, I didn’t. Let her do what she wants if it makes her happy.” Darcy looks at herself for a long time in the full length mirror before her, the dress in her hands. Gemma had the good grace to find a dress that would cover the scars on her shoulder, but Darcy feels gawky and awkward. A dress won’t be able to hide that.

“I’ve grown fond of her, truthfully.”

“She asked for you the one day, did I tell you that? I had to take her down to the hospital wing and she asked me if you were there.” Darcy hates the dress, hesitant to put it on. It reminds her of Aunt Petunia, of the nights she and Vernon would go out—always clad in an expensive dress.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Gemma laughs, but not for long. “Are you all right in there? What’s taking so long?”

Darcy quickly puts the dress on, struggling with it for a few moments. It’s a beautiful thing, truly—a pale gold color with an asymmetric, plunging neckline, the fabric covering her scarred shoulder while leaving her untouched one bare. In the gown, she almost looks a real woman with curves, her body not hidden under sweaters and robes and cloaks. At her waist, it fans out around her, smooth and shimmering. “It’s revealing,” Darcy sighs, not wanting to look at her body for longer than she has to. “Can we just go get some food now?”

“No, let me see first.”

She forces herself to look up in the mirror. Darcy stares at her face for a few seconds, looking herself over for a long time before coming to a realization.

_I look like mum_.

“Darcy, let me see.”

“Fine. Who’s all out there?”

“No one, Darcy, it’s just us—would you just come out here?” Gemma groans. “I’m getting hungry.”

Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?”

Slowly, Darcy pulls the curtain open, revealing herself to Gemma. Gemma gets to her feet, a wide and genuine grin on her face. “Is it terrible?” Darcy frowns.

“Whoa,” Gemma smiles. Her eyes travel up and down Darcy’s body, studying her critically. Darcy blushes, trying to cover her cleavage. “Stop covering! It’s not like your tits are hanging out for everyone to see.”

“I feel like they are.”

“You look beautiful, Darcy.”

“Thank you.”

“Get that one. And then we should get out of here—we’ve done all the Christmas shopping I can stomach for today.”

They take a late lunch at a busy café where Gemma and her parents had frequented when she was younger, but had since switched hands and, according to Gemma, is now run by a old wizard and his young, Muggle wife. When Gemma’s parents had found out a Muggle was working there, they’d never taken Gemma back.

At a small, round table surrounded by their shopping, they each show each other the Christmas gifts they’d gotten for their friends and family. For her father, Gemma had bought a solid gold watch that she’d seen months ago in a window in Diagon Alley; for her mother, a silver necklace with her birthstone embedded in it. For Emily, a new set of paintbrushes, and for Carla, an empty leather photo album twice the size of Darcy’s (“For when she travels after she leaves Hogwarts,” Gemma had beamed.). Gemma had even gotten Harry a few new shirts she thought he’d like.

Darcy hadn’t gone so extravagant with her gifts, and used only the money she’d earned from Hogwarts, knowing Harry wouldn’t be happy if she’d gone into their vault. She’d gotten Harry new clothes (something she’d done regularly since she can remember), put aside some money for Hermione as a donation to S.P.E.W., (though Darcy hadn’t told Gemma that), and Ron two new sweaters (he’d been complaining about having to wear old and itchy Christmas ones from his mother). For Emily, tickets to a musical downtown that Darcy knows her father enjoys; Carla, a new cauldron (Darcy had noticed her last potions class that hers was beginning to rust); and Gemma, the tallest bottle she could find of firewhiskey. For Lupin, she’d taken a page from Gemma’s book, asking her for help with finding a new watch. Since then, Darcy’s decided to ask Gemma for help before buying anything, not only because her own taste in things is good, but because she’s so _good_ at shopping for others. Gemma had wandered the store for fifteen minutes before pointing out a watch, and Darcy hadn’t even doubted that Lupin would appreciate it.

And for Sirius, Darcy had decided he didn’t need material things on the run. Instead, days ago, she’d looked through all of the photographs she’d taken since acquiring her camera. They’d been scattered everywhere—on the mantle above her fireplace, on the bookshelves, in the drawer of her nightstand and on top of it, in her trunk, in her wardrobe. There were photos of her and Lupin—some candid, taken at their most vulnerable, Darcy sleeping in the morning light, Lupin brushing his teeth with his hair falling into his eyes and a towel around his waist, and others laughing and smiling, faces together.

Darcy had set aside all of the pictures of she and Harry, of which there were only three or four. One she wanted to keep, and it wasn’t even one that she’d taken—the photograph of she and Harry outside Hogwarts on her last day as an official student, a magical one. Of the three others, Darcy picked out a photograph of them during the night Harry had completed the first task. Both of them are smiling in it, cheeks pressed against each other. Afterwards, Harry had commented on how much the picture reminded him of mum and dad. Darcy hopes Sirius thinks the same thing after she sends it to him.

“I wish you could be at Hogwarts for Christmas,” Darcy sighs, picking at her salad.

“Me too,” Gemma admits through a mouthful of food. “I wish you could be at my place for Christmas.”

“Me too.” Darcy puts her fork down, looking out of the window of the café. Snow coats the sidewalks and the road, but with the amount of foot traffic, it’s turned brown and muddy already. “Don’t your parents know you’re friends with me?”

“I mean, yeah—they’ve seen pictures of us together and sometimes I’ll mention you in passing,” Gemma shrugs. “They don’t say anything, and they know I’m smart enough not to bring you to the house or two a party or anything.”

“Can I ask you a personal question, Gemma?”

Gemma glances around. There aren’t very many people inside, and not one of them seems to notice they’re there. She looks back down at her plate, stabbing her salad with her fork. “Go on.”

“What will your parents do?” she asks in a low voice. “If Voldemort comes back, will they go back?”

Gemma hesitates, chewing her food and looking thoughtfully at Darcy. She wipes her mouth with her napkin and thinks before answering. “Why do you use the name?”

“Why don’t you?” Darcy retorts. “I’m not afraid of the name. That’s all it is.”

“It’s not just a name, Darcy,” Gemma says, unusually calm. Darcy is reminded of all those months ago, when Gemma had spoken to her about Fenrir Greyback in the tub, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking. “You, of all people, should know that.”

“Because he killed my parents, I should be frightened of the name?”

“Do you want to know something?” Gemma asks, ignoring Darcy completely. She lowers her voice even more. “If You-Know-Who is growing stronger, do you know what that means for me? There are things that will be expected for me—perhaps the pressure to marry a nice pureblood boy, who’ll become a Death Eater. You think You-Know-Who would look kindly on two of his Death Eaters’ daughter becoming friendly with Darcy Potter and a werewolf? You think he would be happy that I’d been having these conversations with you?”

Darcy considers her. The entire situation makes her nauseous, but she isn’t sure why.

“I’m scared everyday,” Gemma whispers, smiling. “I’m afraid that, if You-Know-Who comes back, I’ll die.”

“No one is asking you to do this,” Darcy says gently. “You don’t—you don’t have to—”

“I’m not doing this because anyone’s asking me to,” Gemma scoffs. “I know I don’t _have_ to do this. But I know that I don’t want that life—a life of fear, terror, hatred.”

Darcy smiles weakly.

“We’re not so different, you and me.”

“No,” Darcy sighs, leaning back in her chair. “I suppose not.”

“As for my parents,” Gemma finishes, much less serious now. “We’ll see when it comes down to it whose side they’re really on.”


	38. Chapter 38

“Can I please open my presents now? I’ve only dragged them through the entire castle.”

“Yes, go on.”

Ron tears eagerly into his gifts. Darcy opens her own—the first being two box of chocolates, each morsel filled with firewhisky or rum. There’s a note from Mr. Weasley inside that makes her stomach knot.

_Darcy,_

_Write Molly when you get a chance. Tell her the truth about all this nonsense Rita Skeeter has been writing about you._

_Love,_

_Mr. Weasley_

She doesn’t get a hand knitted sweater this year, but Darcy appreciates the chocolates. Harry’s has gotten her more potions ingredients—things she’s been complaining about for weeks. She’s happy to know Harry at least listens to her when she complains. Hermione’s present is a beautiful picture frame, the perfect size to put one of her favorite photographs in; Ron’s gift is an assortment of candy from Honeydukes. They continue to unwrap presents and gasp and laugh, Darcy taking a few pictures all the while. Gemma’s present makes her laugh, as it’s the same thing Darcy had gotten her—a tall bottle of firewhisky. Emily’s given her a few novels she’s never read, and Carla, new perfume that smells like peppermint.

Upon revealing her gift of a donation to Hermione, Darcy is nearly tackled by a tight hug. Hermione thanks her over and over again while Ron rolls his eyes and Harry tries to ignore them. Darcy knows he doesn’t want Hermione to launch into another speech about house-elf rights, but thankfully she doesn’t.

Lunch is an extravagant affair, almost like a pre-Christmas feast. Darcy eats more than she should, filling her plate with a mountain of food. She even convinces Snape to pull a cracker with her when she finishes, catching Dumbledore’s eye and blushing when she sees his amused smile.

Hermione joins Darcy in her room around five o’clock that evening. She’d been prepared for the task, completely willing to help, but Darcy had underestimated Hermione’s hair. Darcy turns a wireless on, filling the bedroom with Christmas music, and sets to work combing out all the knots and tangles in Hermione’s busy and untamed hair, which takes quite a while, but Hermione sits still the whole time, patient as ever. Hermione’s brought all kinds of hair products that her parents had sent her, and Darcy carefully smooths her hair down, making it shine like she’s never seen. She wishes Emily were here—Emily had always been able to do things to her hair just with her wand, a talent that Darcy’s always lacked.

But Darcy manages. While eating chocolate and listening to music and gossiping and giggling, Darcy twists Hermione’s hair into an elegant knot at the top of her head and helps ease Hermione’s dress on without messing it up. Darcy zips the back for her and takes a good look, mouth slightly open. Hermione looks unrecognizable, more beautiful than Darcy’s ever seen her in a periwinkle color dress, frilly and very unlike her. Underneath her robes, Hermione is apparently very skinny, her collarbones jutting out above the modest neckline, her neck looking rather elongated with all of her hair pulled up.

“Let me see your dress,” Hermione insists kindly, taking a seat on the foot of Darcy’s bed and touching her hair lightly.

Darcy retrieves it from the wardrobe and lays it on the bed. Hermione smiles at the sight of it, and Darcy finds the shoes Gemma had lent her, as well as a gold necklace that looks more expensive than anything Darcy’s ever worn in her life. She’d wanted to wear the purple necklace Lupin had bought for her over the summer, but Gemma had shook her head, pleading with Darcy not to wear it.

She strips and reaches for the gown. Before she can pick it up off the bed, Hermione’s fingers touch the raised scars on her shoulder. Darcy flinches instinctively, startling Hermione, who pulls her hand away immediately. “Sorry,” they both mutter.

Darcy pulls the gown over her head, struggling for a moment. Hermione tugs it down over her head and helps put the necklace on with gentle fingers. When Darcy flips her hair, it splays across her shoulders, and Hermione looks her up and down critically, just as Gemma had. “What?” Darcy asks, covering her chest. “Do you not like it?”

“No, I—I love it,” Hermione smiles. “I’m sorry Professor Lupin can’t be here. I’m sorry you have to go with Mr. Bagman.”

Looking herself over in a mirror, Darcy stands up straight, throwing her shoulders back, holding her nose in the air. The last time she’d looked at herself in a mirror, Darcy thought she looked like her mother, but now it seems the only traces of Lily remain in Darcy’s hair and eyes. Everything else is either her own or James’s, and Darcy doesn’t feel as beautiful anymore. “That reminds me,” she says, frowning. “Get my camera, Hermione. We’ll take a picture.”

Hermione does as she’s bid, reaching for the camera up on a high shelf. “Mum and dad will love a picture.”

Darcy twists her hair, pinning a few pieces out of her face, but keeping it down, letting her red hair fall down her back. With much of her back showing, covering it with her hair makes her feel a little less vulnerable, and slightly warmer. She and Hermione take a few pictures of each other and together, setting them aside to dry while they make for the Great Hall together. Darcy turns back as they cross the threshold, and she grabs her wand, hiding it in the waistband of her underwear. She knows it’s paranoid, but Hermione doesn’t say anything.

With every step towards the Great Hall, Darcy has to resist the urge to run away. She doesn’t want to spend the evening as Ludo Bagman’s date—doesn’t want to dance with him or let him kiss her cheek or smile at him. She doesn’t want Ludo’s hand on the small of her back, or resting on her waist during a dance. Her heart aches with the thought of Lupin, alone, hopefully thinking of her. That’s what—who—she wants, not Ludo, never Ludo. She wants Lupin to put hands on her, to tear this stupid dress from her body, to kiss down her throat and make her shudder with pleasure.

But she had agreed to this, so as they move closer to the marble staircase, Darcy searches desperately for her courage. Hermione hurries off in search of Viktor Krum, promising to meet up later in the evening, leaving Darcy alone. She flexes her fingers at her side, wishing she had a hand to hold—wishing she could twine her fingers with Lupin’s, a gesture that’s always given her some queer form of strength.

At the top of the marble staircase, Darcy has a good view of everyone. The boys are wearing their best dress robes—robes of all different colors and styles, some with high collars and others with ruffles, some that look brand new and others that look passed down from brother to brother. The girls are a much more exciting group, wearing dresses of yellow and pink and blue and black. Darcy feels incredibly out of place, dressed more for one of Gemma’s galas than for a Yule Ball. When she sees Ludo Bagman in the entrance hall, smiling at everyone, he glances up at the stairs and sees her, his face softening.

Darcy makes her way down the stairs, stopping in front of Ludo. He smiles at her, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You look stunning,” he tells her, holding out an arm for her to take. “Exquisite—absolutely beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she answers, trying to keep from blushing. Darcy takes his arm, looking him up and down. Ludo Bagman has never been one for subtlety, and tonight is no different—his robes are a bright, violent purple color, speckled with yellow stars. “You look handsome tonight, Mr. Bagman. Or rather, you look handsome every night, but tonight especially so.”

“You’re going to make me blush, Darcy,” Ludo chuckles, letting Professor McGonagall clear a path in the entrance hall. “The students will be seating themselves first, then we’ll go in, and then the champions and their dates. Unfortunately, I’ll be at the judges’ table when the champions come in, but I’m sure Professor Snape will be happy to keep you company until dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir?” Ludo laughs. “Please, tonight is a night where we can forget formalities, Darcy. Oh—see that fellow over there? With the red hair? You know him, I’m sure?”

Darcy follows Ludo’s line of vision to the opposite side of the entrance hall. To her surprise, she does know him. “Is that—Percy Weasley?” she asks, studying his pale, freckled face underneath his glasses, so like his father. “What is he doing here?”

“Filling in for Barty,” Ludo replies quietly, pulling her away from Professor McGonagall. “He’s Barty’s own personal assistant now, did you know? I’ve heard it said that Barty is not well as of late… not well at all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear.”

It takes quite a while, but the teachers do get the students inside the Great Hall without too much trouble. There seems to be hundreds of people, more than Darcy’s used to, even though the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons parties aren’t a large added amount. Once everyone is seated around many small tables in the Great Hall, the judges proceed through the doors to their table. Professor Dumbledore goes first, Madam Maxime on his arm, smiling serenely at his students. Professor Karkaroff follows, alone, a slight scowl on his face. Percy Weasley follows—if Darcy thought she was our place, Percy is definitely out of place. He keeps his eyes ahead of him, trained on the judges’ table, and doesn’t even look at any of his brothers, who sit off to the sides with their dates.

Ludo and Darcy go last; she clutches onto Ludo’s arm, feeling much like an animal in a zoo. Younger students in Harry’s year gawk at her like they’ve never seen a real girl before, and older students raise their eyebrows. The seventh year Slytherin who’d asked her to the Yule Ball in the middle of a Potions class smiles weakly at her, and Darcy is glad to see he had no trouble finding himself a beautiful girl to come with. Finally, Ludo walks her to a staff table very close to him, where Snape is seated alone. Darcy sits down, watching Ludo go, and feeling slightly braver with Snape at her side.

“What are you playing at?” Snape hisses in her ear, making Darcy jump. “Coming here with Ludo Bagman? It’s hard to say whether or not he’s an improvement over Lupin.”

“Remus is a hundred times the man Ludo Bagman is,” Darcy says quickly, giving Snape a cold look. “It’s not like I had many choices. I can’t imagine Karkaroff was jumping at the chance to take me.”

“Interesting that you would rather come here with Ludo Bagman than spend time with Lupin. A shame he couldn’t come… truly…”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was your idea to keep him away.”

“I’m hurt that you’d suspect me.” Snape sighs heavily, bored. “Does he know about this date with Ludo?”

“It’s not a date, and yes, he knows. Why do you care so much?”

“I was only curious.”

“If what I do or who I go with bothers you so much, then maybe _you_ should have asked me,” she snaps, knowing very well that Lupin would have liked that idea much less. “Aren’t you going to at least compliment my dress?”

“No,” Snape answers before she even gets the questions out completely. “And don’t ask me for a compliment.”

“At least Mr. Bagman had the grace to call me beautiful.”

Snape frowns at her, a dangerous look that Darcy is very familiar with. But her retort keeps him quiet. She looks back to the judges table to find Dumbledore smiling directly at her, shaking his head very slowly. Darcy smiles back, looking apologetic.

As the champions line up just outside the Great Hall, Darcy takes a look around. She’s never seen the interior look like this before—even the table she’s seated at seems elegant. The walls around her are white as if glittering, white snow covers them. Mistletoe and ivy hang from the magical ceiling, making the Great Hall look more like a snowy garden than a hall. On the table before her, a lantern emits a romantic, orange glow. There are four chairs around the table, but only she and Snape sit there—other teachers are seated around them at other small tables, and students sit at much larger ones, where about a dozen of them can fit.

The champions begin their journey to the judges table, and Darcy takes a moment to look them all over carefully. Harry looks incredibly lost, dragged forward by an excited and smiling Parvati Patil, a pretty girl in a pink dress, her long dark hair braided and swaying with each step. On the arm of Cedric Diggory, Cho Chang, a girl that Hermione says Harry fancies—both of them seem to already be enjoying themselves. Viktor Krum and Hermione come next; Hermione’s face is flushed, and Krum looks as pleased as he did when he’d gotten his golden egg. Darcy waves at her, and Hermione smiles wide, brushing off the front of her dress. And last is Fleur Delacour—beyond beautiful, Darcy thinks, in a dress not unlike Darcy’s, but silver instead of gold—escorting a seventh year Ravenclaw Darcy knows as Roger Davies, a boy Gemma had once gone out with for a brief time until Roger’s Quidditch team beat Slytherin.

Once all the champions have been seated, Ludo quickly joins Darcy at her and Snape’s table. Snape scrunches his nose, but they all order food and make polite conversation. Darcy finds that she can’t eat very much, but to her surprise, Snape makes her smile, distracting her from the violent churning in her stomach.

“I’ve heard tell you’re very like your mother,” Ludo says, a plump and delicious looking roast chicken on his plate, garnished with herbs, the skin slightly blackened and crispy. “Is this true, Severus?”

“In looks, perhaps,” he answers curtly, exchanging a look with Darcy while Ludo cuts his chicken. “She can be insolent in a way her mother was not.”

Darcy scoffs, taken aback by his brutal honesty. “Only when you annoy me.”

Snape looks at her full in the face, a single eyebrows raised. “I always annoy you.”

“Yes,” Darcy agrees breathlessly. “You do.”

Ludo laughs out loud, finishing his dinner with enthusiasm while Darcy and Snape continue to pick at their own. Ludo chatters excitedly throughout dinner, and Darcy and Snape listen, not talking much. She laughs when Ludo makes a joke, blushes whenever he compliments her. Every so often, Darcy and Ludo give each other sideways looks when Ludo says something particularly outrageous. As he continues to talk, however, Darcy wonders if maybe it would have been better to have come with Snape—there’d be less dancing, but more people giving her strange looks. _No_ , she tells herself, disgusted. _I hate him. Why would I want to go to a ball with him?_

Once the plates are cleared away, Ludo helps Darcy to her feet. She clutches at the front of her gown to keep herself from tripping over it. Dumbledore, with a wave of his wand, forces the tables to the sides of the Great Hall to produce a large dance floor, and where the staff table typically sits, Dumbledore creates a raised platform—a stage with musical instruments.

Darcy chastises herself mentally for cringing upon seeing The Weird Sisters walk across the stage to generous applause from the students. Gemma likes them, she knows, and not just for their music. Darcy understands at once why Gemma likes them—there are several members, eight in all, and all of them men. They’re hairy and messy, their clothes torn, but their smiles white and blinding. When they pick up their instruments and settle in, beginning a slow song, the champions take the dance floor, and Darcy watches with a smile as Harry is led by Parvati, not very graceful on his feet at all.

When other students begin to flood the dance floor, Ludo takes his chance. He pulls Darcy by the hand to the very center, placing a hand on her waist. It’s then that Darcy realizes something that she hadn’t even thought of—with a hand on Ludo’s shoulder and her other hand clasped firmly in his, Darcy whispers, horrified, “I don’t know how to dance, Mr. Bagman.”

“Not to worry,” he tells her with a smile, leading. “It’s not hard. You’ve never danced before?”

“No,” she chuckles, following his step, keeping up. It’s awkward looking down slightly on him. Ludo isn’t very tall to begin with, and Darcy’s shoes have added a few inches to her height. “I’ve never been given the opportunity to dance with anyone, truthfully. You won’t make a fool of me, will you?”

“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Ludo grins. She can feel his palm against the small of her back, holding her closer than she’d like. His hand touches her exposed skin, and Darcy longs for the warmth that Lupin’s touch brings her. “You almost look at home here. A lovely dress, expensive jewelry, a smile plastered to your face.”

“I’m just happy to be here, Mr. Bagman,” she replies politely. “I’m sorry I was so cold towards you. I have to admit, the idea of a ball was slightly nerve wracking. I’ve never been to something like this before.”

“You had every reason to be cold towards me. I was a little—over excited about meeting you, I think, and it showed.”

“It’s all right.”

“I know you were looking forward to coming with Remus,” Ludo begins, and Darcy inclines her head, the smile not vanishing from her face. “I hope that I don’t disappoint.”

“You could never disappoint me,” she says, giggling. “Do you charm all women so well? Or is it just me?”

“Only those I’ve grown fond of.” Ludo smiles mischievously, his eyes twinkling. “You certainly are something, aren’t you?”

When the song ends and The Weird Sisters begin a faster song, Darcy suggests they get some drinks, and Ludo can’t refuse. They ignore the punch completely, heading for a table with wine and mead, closely guarded by Mr. Filch. Ludo pours Darcy a glass of wine and she sips at it, keeping a close eye on Ludo. She’s only distracted for a moment when Mr. Filch tries to take the goblet out of her hand, and she snaps, “I’m not a student anymore!”

As the evening progresses, Darcy feels as if the whole thing is a mistake. Harry and Ron are both in sour moods, short with her when she tries to talk with him. Hermione, busy with Viktor Krum, also seems annoyed by Harry and Ron, but can’t talk to Darcy for very long. Ludo stays at Darcy’s side for most of the time, and she doesn’t mind it—it’s less lonely with him around, chattering in her ear, but Darcy wishes it was Lupin at her side instead of Ludo. He continues to drink, until Darcy is the one leading the dances and Ludo gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, and that’s when she decides it’s time to speed up the process, wanting to be warm and snug in bed.

“How are things going at the Ministry, Mr. Bagman?” she asks carefully, making sure to smile. “I hope you haven’t been working too hard.”

Ludo gives her a tired smile, his palm slightly sweaty on her back. “It’s never work when you enjoy what you do.”

This makes her smile a genuine smile. “You’ve done such a wonderful job with everything,” she tells him, and Ludo’s face lightens. “We never had anything like this when I was a student.”

“I’ve heard that you’ve had other adventures, however,” Ludo teases, squeezing her hand tight, swaying along to the music with her. “Is it true that you killed a basilisk?”

Darcy blushes furiously, cursing herself, but the sight of her so flustered makes Ludo smile. “Harry did, not me,” she admits sheepishly.

“You’re afraid for him, I know,” Ludo sighs heavily. “Why don’t we take a walk? The courtyard is full of fairies, and I could use some fresh air.”

She likes this idea very much, and allows Ludo to put a hand on the small of her back to guide her through the Great Hall. He wraps a cloak around his shoulders before they depart. Darcy hasn’t been able to catch a glimpse of the courtyard, but it takes her breath away. They’re surrounded by trimmed bushes swarming with fairies, making them glow. A few students sit on stone benches, listening to the splashing fountain (or not so much listening), and Darcy wraps her arms around herself, shivering, looking up at a statue of a beautiful woman with a circlet about her head.

Ludo places his cloak around Darcy’s shoulders, and she’s amazed at how much warmer it makes her. She holds it tight around herself and smiles at him. “Thank you.”

“Come, darling,” Ludo says, looking around him and taking Darcy’s hand. She hesitates at first, unsure if going off alone with Ludo is a good idea, but he has been good to her, so she follows. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk freely.”

The courtyard seems to have become a maze, but Ludo knows where he’s going. He leads her between hedges, past more statues, and past students cloaked in shadows, kissing each other with a ferocity that surprises even Darcy. It makes her sad—what she wouldn’t give to drag Lupin by the hand out into the courtyard, to kiss him in secret, laughing against his skin. And instead, Ludo Bagman is pulling her towards a secluded bench, and Darcy hopes there will be no kissing involved.

Ludo sits down, indicating that she sit next to him. Darcy obliges, their shoulders brushing. For a long time, Ludo is quiet, and Darcy looks down at her feet, gripping Ludo’s cloak tight around her. Her breath steams in the cold night air, and she almost gets up to leave when Ludo finally speaks.

“You want to know what I know, don’t you?”

Darcy opens her mouth to speak, but finds she doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Bagman. Why have we come out here?”

“Just ask me, Darcy,” Ludo continues, rubbing his temples. “I’m tired of games, of coy conversation and false courtesies. You don’t strike me as a girl who’s fond of those things either.”

She pauses, looking into his face. His eyes are tired and heavy, looking into her wide, green ones. “No,” she answers. “I’m not.”

“What do you want to know, Darcy?”

Everything. Darcy shifts uncomfortably, looking over her shoulder. They’re completely alone. “Who put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire?”

Ludo blinks. His small smile fades slowly, but he doesn’t seem troubled. It seems as if he’d been expecting this. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know who put Harry’s name in, nor do I know how they did it.”

She watches him; if Ludo Bagman is lying, he’s the best actor that Darcy has ever seen. “You passed information to a Death Eater,” she says again, not a question, but a statement. Ludo nods shamefully. “How do I know you aren’t passing information on me? On Harry?”

“I was found not guilty,” Ludo reminds her. “And I did not know that I was giving information to a Death Eater. I will not make that mistake again.”

“Did you know what was going to happen at the Quidditch World Cup?”

“No.”

Darcy doesn’t think he’s lying. She wants to believe him so badly, but she doesn’t know what to think. “What do you want from me, Mr. Bagman?” Darcy whispers.

“I want you to see that I’m not a bad person,” he answers, his voice raspy. “You don’t trust me. But have I ever once done anything to hurt you? Have I ever been malicious towards you or your brother?”

Darcy is quiet. She looks away from Ludo, across the path at the fountain. This isn’t going the way any of her friends had anticipated, but it’s a weight off her shoulders. She’s tired of pretending to be confident and silver-tongued.

“You’re a sweet girl,” Ludo tells her, flashing her a small smile out of the corner of her eye. “I wish I could help you. I wish I had more information for you, but I don’t.”

“I understand, sir.”

Ludo chuckles. “I know you don’t believe me,” he says. “But I don’t want anything from you. You can trust me, Darcy. You’re quick to mistrust, quick to assume that people are using you.”

“People have not been kind to me,” Darcy breathes. “I have every reason to mistrust them.”

“I’m sorry,” Ludo squeaks, clearly becoming uncomfortable. “But you can trust me.”

Darcy smiles at him. She quite likes this sincere Ludo Bagman, slightly drunk and tired from dancing. Ludo turns to face her, reaching up to put a hand on her cheek and giving her a soft pat. He kisses her hair softly, and Darcy closes her eyes. When he pulls away and his hand drops from her cheek, Darcy’s eyes flutter open. “Can we go back to the castle now, Mr. Bagman?”

Harry and Ron are missing from the Great Hall, and Ludo runs off to the bathroom, leaving Darcy alone amongst the sea of students and teachers. She looks around for a sign of Hermione, but she seems to have disappeared, as well. It’s then that Darcy sees Snape standing in the corner by the drinks and she joins him, sneaking up to his side, feeling light on her feet again without a cloak around her shoulders.

“Could you get me some wine, please?”

“Get your own wine. The glasses are right here.” But Darcy doesn’t move, and Snape looks at her with a cocked eyebrow. “Not having fun?”

“No. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Snape suddenly looks away and Darcy follows his line of vision. They both see Karkaroff approaching, strutting forwards with his chest puffed out. Darcy moves closer to Snape, trying to avoid Karkaroff’s gaze, but she knows it’s too late.

“Severus,” Karkaroff smiles. Darcy watches him as he claps a hand on Snape’s shoulder, his dark eyes cold when he glances at her. “Keeping Darcy all to yourself? Come dance, sweetling—just one dance.”

He extends a hand to her. Darcy looks warily at Snape, hoping he’ll intervene. He only studies Karkaroff’s left arm, straightened out towards Darcy. “I suppose just one,” she replies quietly, nodding at Snape as she takes Karkaroff’s hand.

Karkaroff leads her to the dance floor again. Darcy looks over her shoulder and finds comfort in the fact that Snape is still watching them closely. Unlike Ludo Bagman, Karkaroff is taller than Darcy, even while she’s wearing heels, but is much less handsome than Ludo, and much less warm towards her, despite his friendly tones. He places a firm hand on her waist, holding her right hand just as tight. As the Weird Sisters continue playing, Karkaroff leads Darcy. It’s clear he’s a much better dancer—not that she’s one to judge.

“I regret that we’ve not spoken more,” Karkaroff says. His voice is rough and she can smell the wine on his breath. “Ludo speaks very highly of you, and Severus is—well, not that he’s one to compliment, but he seems to have a certain fondness for you.”

Darcy gives him a forced smile that quickly disappears.

“You are—curious,” Karkaroff begins again, his voice less harsh than it had been. “You’re not what I expected.”

“In what way, sir?” she asks, if only to amuse him.

Karkaroff purses his lips, but doesn’t seem to be able to keep his curiosity to himself. “You claim to love a werewolf. Like I said—curious.”

Anger flares in her. “I don’t find it curious at all,” she replies, trying to keep it out of her voice. “He is gentle with me, as a man should be. He loves me, as I deserve to be loved. What do you find so curious about that, sir?”

He looks as if he wants to say more, but decides to smile instead, showing his half-rotted teeth. “Nothing,” he answers. “Nothing at all. I’m sorry he couldn’t be here.”

”I’m sure he’s sorry, as well,” she says, her jaw clenched. “I’m sure he would have _loved_ to meet you.”

When the song ends, Darcy thanks him for the dance and hurries back to Snape. “Thanks for your help,” she hisses at him. “Get me out of here, please, Professor.”

“Done.” Snape looks sideways at her. “There’s a carriage just beyond the courtyard. It’ll take you down to Hogsmeade.”

Darcy stares at him, stuttering, looking like a complete fool, unsure of how to express her gratitude. “If Ludo comes looking for me—”

“I’ll tell him you had too much to drink and needed to lie down. A believable lie, I think.”

“And if Harry—”

“Do not ask anymore of me tonight, Darcy. Take the carriage and go.”

“Thank you.” Darcy touches his arm gently, smiling up at him. He doesn’t smile back, not that she had expected him to. “Thank you very much.”

Darcy hurries to her room and gathers Lupin’s wrapped gift, not bothering to change. She runs out the doors of Hogwarts, through the beautiful gardens until she reaches the grounds. There, as promised, is a carriage waiting to take her to Hogsmeade. The thestral snorts, stomps its hooves, and Darcy climbs in, smoothing out her dress.

The ride down to Hogsmeade is quick, and Darcy’s heart beats quickly in her throat as she steps out, giving the thestral a quick pat on the skeletal neck, grabs her wand out quickly from underneath her dress, and she turns on the spot, being pressed in from each sides—the uncomfortable sensation that is Apparition. But it works, and Darcy nearly cries when she sees he’s left the light on for her.

Darcy hurries to the door, knocking softly. It only takes Lupin a few moments to reach the door, and when he does, he falters. “Can I come in?” she asks.

Lupin smiles a small smile, opening the door to let her in. Darcy walks into a warm home, goosebumps covering her bare flesh. With her heels on, she’s almost as tall as him, a strange sight. Lupin touches her shoulders, holding her out at arms’ length to look her over. His fingers brush over Gemma’s borrowed necklace, tracing the neckline of her gown. He struggles for speech for a minute, looking her in the eyes and laughing incredulously. “You are so beautiful, Darcy.”

Darcy blushes. “Thank you. I got you something.” She holds out the small present for him, and Lupin takes it into his hands, placing it on the kitchen counter.

“Where’s your bag?”

She shrugs slightly. “I have my emergency outfits and supplies here. I didn’t need my bag.” They both laugh weakly. Darcy licks her lips, wanting nothing more than to kiss him, to love him, to feel his arms around her. Why had she even gone to the Yule Ball? It hadn’t given her any joy, but left her feeling empty. “Can I take a shower?”

“I—of course, yes,” he sighs happily. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” she smiles, slipping past him towards the bedroom.

Darcy scrubs off Karkaroff’s touch in the hot shower, hating herself. She doesn’t know why the Yule Ball has left her feeling this way, but she thinks it has something to do with wearing an expensive dress, playing the part of a lady—polite and well-raised, a mini Aunt Petunia. After she scrubs off Karkaroff’s fingerprints, Darcy continues to scrub every inch of her skin until it’s rubbed raw, trying to wash off any traces of Aunt Petunia.

Lupin’s watching a Christmas movie on the sofa when Darcy comes out of the shower, clad in shorts and one of his sweaters, her hair soaking wet. He looks her up and down, smiling.

“Did you open your present?” Darcy asks again, moving to the sofa and kissing his cheek.

“No, I was waiting for you,” he says. “I got something for you, as well. It’s on the counter, love. Will you get it for me?”

She does, bringing back both presents. “Go on,” she urges him. “Open it.”

He laughs, unwrapping the box. Upon opening it, he closes it immediately, looking at her with a frown. “Oh, Darcy—my love, I—I can’t accept this.”

“Of course you can.” Darcy takes the box from him, taking out the watch and sliding it onto his wrist. Lupin admires it, and Darcy smiles. “Do you like it?”

He nods in spite of himself. “I love it. Thank you. Open yours.”

Darcy opens it with trembling fingers, looking up at him and laughing nervously. Underneath the wrapping paper is a velvet box. She hesitates, opening it slowly. Inside is a silver necklace, simple and beautiful and shiny. Darcy pulls it out, smiling. Tears flood her eyes and she sniffles, wiping her cheeks. “You didn’t have to do this,” she cries.

“Sweetheart, why are you crying?” Lupin says, brushing her tears away with his thumbs, confused.

“No one’s ever gotten me a Christmas present like this before.” Darcy closes the box, putting on the coffee table.

Lupin laughs again, cupping her cheeks in his palms and kissing her. He breaks the kiss and furrows his brow. “Why are you here, Darcy?” His tone is not unkind, but curious.

Darcy looks at him for a long time before curling up at his side and resting her head on his chest. She closes her eyes, listening to the steady thumping of his heart. Lupin brushes her hair from her face, kissing her temple. She sighs into his chest, relishing the feel of Lupin wrapping his arm around her and the warmth it provides.

Exhausted, Darcy yawns. “I wanted to come home.”

Lupin squeezes her body to his. “Merry Christmas, love.”

Darcy drapes her arm around his middle. “Merry Christmas.”

 


	39. Chapter 39

It’s Lupin’s touch that wakes her the next morning. Just a gentle thing, reaching out to brush his fingers against her back to make sure she’s still there. He does it every morning that he wakes before her, even before he opens his eyes, just to make sure she hasn’t left him, and Darcy wonders when he’ll realize that she will always be here come the morning. Sometimes she finds herself doing the same thing in her own bed after waking from a nightmare, only to realize she’s alone, and the pain of her aching heart when she opens her eyes to find the other side of her bed empty is worse than the pain of the nightmare itself.

Darcy reaches behind her to hold his hand. He lets her lace their fingers together, then squeezes. Even now, hours after the Yule Ball, his hand gives her strength, bravery, courage. She feels half a fool for letting something as stupid as the Yule Ball get to her. Darcy replays the night in her mind—she’d dreamed of it even—and tries to figure out why it had unsettled her. Harry had been mortified of dancing with a girl, of leading the dancing with the other champions while the rest of the students and teachers watched on. But that was nothing. Lupin and Gemma had talked her ear off through two bottles of wine, instructing her on what to say and what to do and how to act, but it had all been for nothing. Ludo Bagman knew nothing.

Or perhaps it was just the festivities. Darcy can’t remember ever attending anything like it. The gown felt strange on her, tight and foreign, and everyone had called her beautiful, but she couldn’t believe it. Upon looking in the mirror before going to the ball with Hermione, Darcy couldn’t believe it was her own reflection in the mirror. It was a completely different person looking back at her— _is that what I would have been if I’d married some stupid boy like Aunt Petunia wanted?_ She doesn’t want that, no more than she’d wanted it when she was a little girl, paraded about before Aunt Petunia’s friends like a proper lady. And last night, she’d been paraded about in front of the entire school, looked at in ways that only Lupin has looked at her—hungry and greedy eyes had followed her, watched her dance with Ludo Bagman, watched her dance with Igor Karkaroff.

 _Ludo said I belonged there, but he was wrong. This is where I belong—here, with Remus._ Remus, who admitted he’d preferred her in his own clothes to her gown. Remus, who’d stroked her hair as she cried herself to sleep about things she can’t even remember now. Remus, who had left the light on for her, hoping she’d come. Or had he known she’d come all along? Had he known that she wouldn’t be happy there? Remus Lupin, who knows her better than she knows herself sometimes?

This is what she’d been afraid of—of knowing another place as home. A place without Harry. The only two places she’d ever known as home were Hogwarts and Privet Drive, and Darcy is reluctant to even call Number Four home. It was the Dursleys’ home, but not hers. And yet Darcy can’t help but to wonder— _is this place home, or is it wherever Remus is that’s home?_

The heavy and slow breathing from behind her tells her that Lupin’s fallen asleep again. He’s not squeezing her hand anymore, their fingers still twined loosely. Darcy closes her eyes, and sleep takes her again.

She regrets going back to sleep. The nightmare comes on right away, so clear that it might have been real. Darcy tries to move, tries to tell her mother that she loves her, but there’s no time—Voldemort strikes her down and the house collapses around her and Harry’s gone—but over the sound of her screams, of her crying, she can’t hear him. Darcy can feel the crushing weight on her legs, pain shoots up her legs and her lower back, and the man she now knows is Sirius runs towards her—

“Darcy, it’s all right—it’s all right, my love—I’m here—Darcy, wake up—I love you, I’m here, you’re safe now…”

Darcy opens her eyes, Lupin’s arms around her, his chest pressed against her back. She stops squirming in his hold, her heart hammering violently in her chest. Her cheeks are wet with tears, her body soaked in cold sweat, and the blankets have been kicked down to the foot of the bed. She stills, breathing heavily, trembling, frightened despite having dreamed that dream a thousand times.

She rolls over, pressed against his chest, steadying her breathing. Lupin smiles at her, running his fingers through her damp hair and brushing his thumb lightly over Darcy’s lips before kissing her. “Are you all right?” he asks, and Darcy nods slightly.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she rasps. “I’m okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

She sighs heavily. “I wish I could stay here forever.”

Lupin laughs. “You can stay here as long as you’d like.” He tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear, curly and wild after having slept with her hair wet. “Do you remember this time last year? You kissed me for the first time.” He presses his lips to her forehead and she blushes furiously.

“I was humiliated,” she confesses, smiling at the thought of it. She gives him a soft kiss, just like their first one. “Do you remember the night that I tried to cast a Patronus? You told me something then, and I’ve never forgotten.”

He smiles, and Darcy has a feeling he knows what she’s talking about, but still he says, “Refresh my memory.”

“You told me that one day someone would love me, and you told me to make sure that person never lets me forget how much I am loved.” Darcy pauses, brushing hair out of his tired eyes. “You kissed me afterward, remember?”

“I remember,” he whispers, his smile not faltering. “And have I ever let you forget how loved you are?”

“No,” she answers. “Never.” Darcy touches his face, runs her fingertips along his cheekbone and his jaw. Sometimes it still feels unreal, like this is all a dream. Sometimes she can’t believe that he is _hers_ , that she is his, that someone like him could possibly love someone like her. _What have I done to deserve him?_

“Good. Now why don’t you tell me about last night?”

Darcy plunges recklessly into the tale of the Yule Ball, beginning with her descent down the marble staircase into the entrance hall. She tells Lupin about Percy Weasley filling in for Barty Crouch (which Lupin finds highly suspicious), talking in the courtyard with Ludo (Lupin scowls when she tells him Ludo had kissed her head), her dance with Karkaroff (Lupin narrows his eyes at this), and Snape procuring her a carriage to get her out of Hogwarts (Lupin scoffs, as if the idea is ridiculous). When she finishes, Lupin is quiet for a long time, thinking hard. She can almost hear the gears in his brain turning, the grinding of his jaw.

“I didn’t find out anything,” she tells him with a frown. “And I didn’t even have any fun. Ludo doesn’t know anything.”

“Unless he’s lying,” Lupin counters. “Trustworthy people normally don’t have to tell you that you can trust them.”

“I don’t think he’s lying,” Darcy argues, shrugging her shoulders. “I think he’s just a fool. A fool who cares too much what I think of him.”

“Or he’s afraid, so he’s appealing to your kind nature.”

“No,” she protests. “I’m telling you, he wasn’t lying.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know anything about what Voldemort is up to, but he must want something. Why else would he have worked so hard to charm you?”

“He seemed sincere when he talked to me.”

“I’m sure he did.” His tone becomes cold, and Darcy furrows her brow.

“If you didn’t want me to go with Ludo, then you should have just said so instead of encouraging it with Gemma.” She sighs loudly. “Besides, Snape got me out of there before Ludo could ask me of anything, so it doesn’t matter.”

Lupin hums impatiently. “You’re too beautiful for your own good, you know that?” he asks, his voice low and firm. “You must be the first person since your mother to know the kinder side of Severus.”

Darcy scrunches her nose at the thought. “I wouldn’t say he’s particularly kind to me, and I’m sure some of it is Dumbledore’s doing.” She smiles, kissing him. “It’s all over. I won’t have to dance with Ludo or Karkaroff ever again—hopefully. Don’t worry.”

“But you’ll still go back to Severus. And of course I worry,” he whispers, chuckling and tangling his fingers in the back of her hair. “You’re so far away from me—always in such close confines with Severus.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about. I’m yours.”

Lupin kisses her hard without warning, disentangling his hand from her hair and running his fingers down her side. Caught off guard, the kiss leaves Darcy completely breathless, heart racing. He pushes her gently onto her back, slipping a hand down her pants. As soon as she touches her, Darcy breaks the kiss and sighs contently, looking down.

“No,” he growls. “Look at me.” Lupin pulls his hand quickly from between her legs, catching her face, keeping her from looking away from him.

Instinctively, before she can stop herself, Darcy closes her eyes and flinches as he squeezes her face—a firm, but gentle touch, to be sure, not the bruising touch that Vernon so often gives her. Lupin’s hands are different—his fingers are long and slender compared to Vernon’s fat ones, and his touch is warm instead of cold and completely void of tenderness. Her reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by Lupin, and he releases her face immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, the moment completely gone. “I—I didn’t mean to frighten you, I only—” He shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks turning pink, clearing his throat.

“It’s all right, you didn’t,” she answers, reaching out for his hand. She kisses Lupin’s fingers. “I trust you.”

He looks at her for a long time before kissing her forehead softly. “I would never hurt you, Darcy,” he sighs, touching her shoulder. “Not as long as I could help it.”

“I know.”

Lupin doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he gives Darcy’s forehead another kiss. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t go back there.” He touches her face lightly, much differently from how he had. “If it were up to me, you’d spend the rest of your life here.”

Darcy smiles. “I know that, too.”

“I’d take care of you.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I love you.”

Lupin kisses her. “I know.”

* * *

The next few days bring Darcy much joy; as they wander around nearby towns, Darcy remembers summer days spent with Emily, window shopping and visiting theaters and sneaking into places they weren’t old enough to enter in the first place. Darcy and Lupin take shelter from the unforgiving wind and snow in antique shops, bookstores, and furniture stores. She buys him a few new plants to put around his home, they take lunch three different days in three different restaurants; after accidentally wandering into an adult video store, they find one with an outrageous and ridiculous title and buy it just for something to do that night. Their days are full of smiles and laughter, shy kisses and hand-holding, snow in their hair and scarves wrapped tight around their faces.

One day, in a small candy shop, as Darcy sorts through her Muggle money to pay for their things, Lupin looks at the young woman behind the counter and beams at her. “She’s my girlfriend,” Lupin says, and the woman only smiles politely and awkwardly at them.

Darcy blushes furiously, giving Lupin a sideways look. “Shut up,” she mutters, throwing the money on the counter and pulling him out by the hand, smiling when she sees that Lupin’s grin hasn’t faltered.

But Darcy enjoys the evenings much more. She enjoys drinking until they’re both tipsy, their cheeks flushed with drink; laying on his chest as he reads to her; relishing the feeling of his smile against her skin as he kisses her, and their muffled laughter as they roll around in bed. She appreciates the feeling of being completely in love, so at home with him—sweet pillow talk that would make Gemma vomit, innocent touches and not so innocent ones, kisses that make Darcy’s heart flutter. She cooks dinner some night—whatever she wants—and they eat roast chicken one night while watching the video they’d bought (Darcy blushes throughout the entire thing). Afterwards, Lupin turns to her and says, “We could do that, don’t you think?”

It turns out they can’t, no matter how flexible Darcy is. The attempt results in much laughter, a few pulled muscles, and several apologies. “It was a good try,” Darcy jokes, just before Lupin takes her against the wall, all smiles and tender kisses and strong arms.

And with each moment that she spends in Lupin’s company—in his home—the more she realizes how deep she’s in it. Her desire to stay instead of returning to Hogwarts grows stronger, and Darcy knows that if her brother didn’t have a second task to deal with, it would be the hardest thing she’s ever done to leave Lupin again. But Harry needs her more than Lupin does, and Lupin knows it, as well.

As he sleeps one night, Darcy puts her book back on the end table, leaving the light on. She admires his face, the scratchy beard that’s grown back in, the faint scars that the beard covers and the ones that aren’t hidden, the premature lines on his face. Darcy pushes his hair back out of his face, more gray than the last time she’d stayed with him here. She kisses his cheek lightly, wanting to pepper his face with more kisses, but not wanting to wake him.

“Darcy,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring you,” she whispers with a small smile. Darcy takes the opportunity to kiss his face over and over, small kisses, and Lupin can’t hide the smile that spreads across his face. She puts a hand on his cheek and he finally opens his eyes. “I am so in love you, Remus.”

He lets out a tired and groggy laugh, closing his eyes again. “I must be the luckiest man in the world, then.”

The following morning, a familiar tapping noise on the window wakes them both. Darcy jumps out of bed, her heart racing as she opens the window for Max, letting in all the wintery air. The cold makes goosebumps rise on her skin, almost naked save for her underwear, which does little to keep her warm. Max soars inside, shaking snow off his wings, and Lupin groans as the owl perches on his exposed bicep. Lupin attempts to shake him off, but Max only hoots indignantly until Darcy calls him; it’s then she realizes there are two letters, and she unties them from around his leg with haste, her anxiety peaking.

Max tightens his grip on her good shoulder, his talons piercing her skin. Darcy scratches his chest and sends him off, and he settles on the top of Lupin’s wardrobe as she unrolls the pieces of parchment he’s brought with him. The first is in Harry’s handwriting, messy and childish. Lupin sits up in bed, rubbing his beard and watching her.

Darcy reads Harry’s letter aloud to Lupin, pacing at the foot of the bed. “‘I hope Max knows where to find Lupin’s—I guess I’m lucky you left him here. There were a few things I hear the night of the Yule Ball I need to tell you about, and I don’t think it can wait.’ How did Harry manage to get information, but I didn’t?”

Lupin smiles, and Darcy continues.

“‘Ron and I heard Karkaroff and Snape talking. Karkaroff sounded worried and he talked about something becoming clearer and clearer. Snape said he won’t flee, but will stay at Hogwarts. Then he found Ron and me, so we didn’t hear much else. I don’t know what they could have been talking about, but I thought I’d tell you right away.’” Darcy hesitates, rereading the words. For a moment, she feels she can’t breathe. _Clearer and clearer. He won’t flee. He’ll stay at Hogwarts_. Darcy feels dizzy at the thought, and she looks slowly up to Lupin. “What does that mean? What is Snape playing at? What’s getting clearer?”

Lupin’s smile fades, and he licks his lips. “Darcy…”

“What?” she snaps. Darcy reads the words once more, her breathing quickening, trying to keep up with her hammering heart. She runs a hand through her hair and Max flies down from the wardrobe, wrapping his talons around her scarred shoulder and Darcy hisses at him. “Not that shoulder!”

Startled, Max flies to Lupin. To Darcy’s surprise, Lupin scratches under Max’s beak. Darcy watches, rubbing her bare and bleeding shoulder.

“He has a Dark Mark, doesn’t he?” she whispers, clenching Harry’s letter, her stomach churning. It’s the only thing that Darcy can think of that may be getting clearer. After all, Karkaroff had been a Death Eater before—and with his talk of fleeing, just like Gemma had told her. Her chest heaving, the room spinning around her, Darcy looks helplessly at Lupin. “Snape’s a Death Eater—”

“He was, but no longer,” Lupin assures her softly, still stroking Max’s feathers. “Darcy—breathe—calm down—”

“You knew?” she asks, taking a step back as Lupin moves quickly to get out of bed. “You knew that Snape is a Death Eater?” Darcy shakes her head as Lupin nears her. To think, she’d trusted him as much as one _could_ trust Snape—she had been kind to him, had smiled and laughed at his side. “Why didn’t you tell me? Snape put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire, didn’t he? No one would have suspected him. How could Dumbledore allow him to teach there?” But saying the words, even that doesn’t sound right. Snape had seemed confused when Harry’s name had been pulled from the Goblet of Fire, had asked Darcy if she’d been the one to do it, had brought her with him into the champions’ room and sat with her until Dumbledore came back to his office. “Explain.”

“Darcy,” Lupin says again, reaching out to touch her shoulders, to steady her. Darcy pulls away from him, backing into the wall and attempting to cover her chest. Lupin sighs, grabbing her discarded shirt off the floor and helping her into it. “Whatever Severus was before, he is no longer. Dumbledore trusts him, so we need to trust him, as well.”

“Why wouldn’t you have told me? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I should have been told—you promised you wouldn’t keep any secrets from me,” she continues, shaking her head and looking up into Lupin’s face. “You _promised_.”

“I know,” Lupin frowns. Max flutters onto his shoulder and for once, Lupin doesn’t shoo him away. “I know, and I’m sorry—”

“Gemma said you can’t just stop being a Death Eater,” Darcy interrupts, and Lupin tucks her hair behind her ears, Max flapping his wings wildly on Lupin’s shoulder. “Gemma—Gemma would have known and she didn’t tell me and—and…” She trails off, allowing Lupin to cup her cheeks in his warm palms, to kiss her hair. “How could Dumbledore let me work with him, knowing what he is?”

“Because Dumbledore trusts him,” Lupin answers. “Look at what Snape has done for you—he saved you from _me_ , kept you from bleeding out after what I’d done to you. He has taken you on as his assistant, has been kind to you, helped you escape the Yule Ball without you even having to ask.”

“He has mocked and insulted me and my brother,” Darcy snaps, shaking his hands off her. “Mocked and insulted my friends and my brother’s friends.”

Lupin sighs, standing up straight and giving her an exasperated look. “He made me Wolfsbane all the time I was teaching, something he didn’t have to do—”

“And then he outed you,” Darcy retorts sharply, soliciting another heavy sigh from Lupin. “He would have given you to the dementors—he would have taken you away from me.”

“I do not suspect Severus guilty of putting Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire. I am sure that Dumbledore looked into the matter thoroughly, and I am sure that if he thought Severus had anything to do with it, he would have taken measures to extract you from the situation you are in.” He’s quiet for a time, then glances down at the letter still in her hand. “Why don’t you read the rest of the letter?”

Darcy pushes past him, sitting on the foot of the bed and calling Max. The owl hesitates before taking wing and flying back to the top of the wardrobe. Lupin sits beside her, waiting for her to continue reading. Reluctantly, she does.

“‘Ron and I also overheard something we probably shouldn’t have, but I promise we didn’t mean to. Hagrid and Madame Maxime were in the courtyard and he said that his mother was a giant, and he thought she was half-giant, and she got really offended. Ron says giants are vicious, and that if people found out, it wouldn’t be good.’” Darcy looks up at Lupin again. “Hagrid’s half giant?”

“What did you think he was?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy admits sheepishly. “I just thought he was really big.”

Lupin laughs at that.

“He’s never spoken to me about his family before,” she says, frowning. “He hasn’t spoken to me at all lately.”

“There’s more?”

Darcy nods and finishes the letter. “‘There is one more thing. Cedric came up to me about my egg. He gave me the password to the prefect’s bathroom and told me to take a bath with it. But the second task is still months away. I have time. Love, Harry.’”

Darcy throws Harry’s letter to the side and opens the second one, almost laughing when she sees who it’s from.

“‘Harry told me he was sending a letter to you, so I thought I would, as well. I know he’s going to tell you about Hagrid, and I really hope it doesn’t change the way you think of him. I’m worried that this will get out, but we know Hagrid is nothing like Ron thinks giants are like. Prejudice, is what it is. Love from, Hermione.’”

Lupin throws back his head and laughs again, harder than before. “She thinks that you’re going to think differently of Hagrid because of that?” he asks incredulously. “She does know you’re sleeping with a _werewolf_ , doesn’t she?”

“She’s just being Hermione.” Darcy sighs, putting the letters aside, and she remembers something that pushes all thoughts of Snape to the back of her mind. “Oh—I forgot to tell you. Sirius is going to visit tomorrow.”

“And you’ve just now remembered?” Lupin grins.

“Yeah, well,” she replies. “I guess I had other things on my mind.”

“All good, I hope?”

“I’ve been having a wonderful time with you,” she says. “If that’s what you’re afraid of.” Darcy kisses him, frowning. “Don’t let me go back to Hogwarts.”

“You’d hate me if I did that.”

This makes Darcy smile, albeit weakly. “I could never hate you.”

“As much as I want you here, you belong at Hogwarts,” he tells her, taking her hand in his. “As much as I hate to admit it—you need to go back.”

”I suppose you’re right. You’re always right.”

”You’re flattering me,” he teases, kissing her temple. “What have I told you about flattery?”

Darcy chuckles. “What? That flattery gets me nowhere?” she replies. “Seems to me that flattery has gotten me _everywhere_.”

 


	40. Chapter 40

“Come to bed,” Darcy whispers, kissing him on the top of the head. She takes the book out of his hands, marking his page and setting it on the coffee table. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Lupin rubs his eyes, sitting up straight on the sofa and stretching. The fire has long since died out, now just a few embers that smolder deep in the hearth. Music still drifts through the home from the wireless in the kitchen, a slow and festive song, a ghostly whisper as Darcy cleans up the remnants of their late dinner, scraping small bits of uneaten food in the waste bin and stacking the dishes in the sink. She turns some lights off and wipes her hands on the front of her shirt, holding a hand out for Lupin to take.

He takes it and pulls himself off the sofa, yawning. He’s bleary-eyed, having fallen asleep near an hour ago as Darcy finished a book. As Darcy goes to turn off the wireless, Lupin catches her wrist, making her jump. He pulls her into position to dance, and Darcy tenses for a moment, but relaxes almost immediately. Dancing with him seems natural, even just swaying—not the flamboyant and complicated steps Ludo had led her in, nor the proper and uncomfortable dance she’d had with Karkaroff.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you,” he murmurs into her hair as Darcy rests a cheek on his shoulder.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to be there any more than I did,” Darcy chuckles. “I’m not a dancer, anyway. Not anymore.”

It had been years ago since she had last danced. Not with someone, of course, but as a young girl—Darcy can picture it now. Vernon and Petunia dropping her off at classes and leaving her alone among the girls, whose mothers and sometimes fathers would watch with smiles. Darcy never had the luxury of even that much. She hadn’t been much good at it, she thinks.

Lupin rests his cheek against her forehead. Darcy smiles into his neck, the tip of her nose brushing against his skin. “I do think I’d have looked nice on your arm,” she confesses, making Lupin laugh. “I missed you. It wasn’t right without you there. Hogwarts isn’t right without you there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Darcy says quickly. “I just feel—safe with you. Something I’ve not felt for a very long time.” She lifts her head from his shoulder, and it’s then they stop dancing, the song now static on the wireless. “I’ve never felt safe at Privet Drive. I’ve always been afraid of Vernon, always been afraid to make one wrong move or say one wrong thing.”

Lupin tucks some of her hair behind her ear, his other hand on her cheek.

“Aunt Petunia used to make me go to church, did I ever tell you that?” Darcy asks, and he shakes his head. “She used to make me go every Sunday, and the summer after my first year at Hogwarts, I told her that I didn’t want to go to church anymore. I told her that I couldn’t believe a righteous and fair and just god would have put my brother and me in a home like theirs. A place where I was hit and hungry and afraid.”

“And she didn’t make you go to church anymore?”

Darcy laughs bitterly. “Vernon hit me across the face so hard that I bruised. He threatened me to my face, called me ungrateful—all as Aunt Petunia watched on.” Her mirthless smile fades as she remembers the day. She’d looked Aunt Petunia in the eyes while Vernon struck her. Vernon had only been proving her point, and Darcy hasn’t forgotten the anger and pity that flashed in Aunt Petunia’s brown eyes that day, the way her jaw had clenched, her teeth surely about to shatter. “I got to skip church for two weeks as my bruise healed, but by the third week, I was back.”

Lupin frowns, obviously horrified.

“After my third year at Hogwarts, when I spoke to Aunt Petunia about going to church, I made sure to do it where Vernon wouldn’t hear us. Aunt Petunia has never raised a hand to me.” Darcy hesitates, wrapping her arms around Lupin’s neck, his fingers weaving through her hair, brushing lightly against her skin. “I told her that I hated going to church, that I would never pray to a god who has never heard my prayers. A god that shows no pity for a young girl and her brother. A god that takes away loving parents and gives their children a horrible life instead.” Aunt Petunia had been gardening when Darcy approached her that day. Her lips had been pursed so tight that Darcy was sure they would never open again.

Lupin watches her carefully, his brow furrowed.

“I thought she was going to tell me to leave the house, or have Vernon beat me bloody,” Darcy chuckles, looking past him at her wand sitting on the kitchen counter. “But she didn’t do either of those things. She apologized to me and sent me to my room. And I was so happy— _proud_ of myself that I’d had the courage to tell Aunt Petunia what I wanted. I thought that, as long as Aunt Petunia was without her husband, I had no reason to be afraid.”

She’s quiet for a long time, until Lupin asks, “And then what happened?”

“And then the morning came, and when Vernon found out what I’d said to Aunt Petunia, he dragged me out of bed by the hair and hit me so hard that the bruises were still there when I went back to Hogwarts, and Madam Pomfrey cried when I told her what happened.”

Darcy looks back into Lupin’s eyes, feeling quite small under his scrutinizing gaze. “Where did he hit you?” he whispers, his voice almost blending in with the static in the background.

She touches the tips of her fingers to her cheekbone. “Here,” she breathes, and Lupin places a soft kiss there. Darcy moves her fingers to the corner of her eyebrow and receives another kiss. She touches her lips—another kiss. “And here,” she says again, touching her jaw. The kisses he gives her are the gentlest and softest kisses he’s ever given her, and Darcy smiles, closing her eyes.

“You are the bravest person I’ve ever known,” he tells her, kissing both of her cheeks and then her forehead, his kisses still soft and sweet and loving.

Darcy lowers her arms from around his neck, wrapping them around his middle instead, the better to rest her cheek against his chest. Lupin kisses the top of her head. “Was I asking too much? All I ever prayed for was for someone to love me,” she murmurs against his sweater. In spite of everything, she laughs weakly. “Or maybe God did hear my prayers. Maybe He brought you to me. Yet even so, He still allowed me to suffer for years.”

Lupin rests his chin atop her head. “My mother was a religious woman,” he says. “When I was young, a small boy, she used to tell me at night that she used to pray for a son, and then she had me.”

“Did she still pray after you had been bitten?” Darcy asks, more bitter than she’d intended.

Lupin is quiet for a moment. “I’d never thought to ask her.” He tangles his fingers in her hair, sighing heavily. “Everyone needs something to get them through the hard times, and some people choose to pray.”

“And what do the rest of us do? Those that don’t pray?”

“Take comfort where we can,” he answers. “In others, for instance.”

Darcy pulls away from him and looks up, smiling. “I love you,” she says, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “Come to bed, Remus. You have a young girl waiting to be touched and defiled. Or is that not an appropriate way to cope?”

“Will it bring you comfort?”

“Well,” Darcy replies slowly. “I can’t say that I’ve ever felt _bad_ when you’re inside me.”

Lupin smiles back at her, taking her into his arms and lifting her, making her giggle. Darcy wraps her legs around his waist, kissing his face over and over as he walks them to the bedroom.

* * *

“You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that, Remus?” There’s a deep sigh. “So this is the way it’s going to be?”

Darcy’s eyes flutter open at the sound of the voice. Lupin’s arms are wrapped around her, his chest pressed against her back, face buried in her shoulder. One hand cupped around a breast, Lupin stirs, pulling the blanket up to their chins. Darcy glances up towards the door to see her godfather standing in the threshold, a half-eaten banana in his hand, leaning against the doorway.

“Get out, Sirius,” Lupin growls against Darcy’s shoulder.

She squirms in Lupin’s arms until he finally lets go of her. “Let me dress,” she tells Sirius. “And I’ll be right out.”

Sirius grunts his response, mouth full of food. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Darcy jumps from the bed, digging through Lupin’s dresser for clothes she’d previously left behind. Upon looking for a shirt, she reaches into the top drawer and feels something tucked in the back corner that pierces her. Darcy reaches for it, pulling it out.

It’s a photograph, one taken back in the summer. She recognizes her own body enough to see it’s her almost right away. Her legs are stretched out in front of her in the picture, dark red hair fanned out around her, her chest completely bare, a book in her hands. Darcy smiles at the sight of it, at the sight of herself smiling sheepishly from over her book. She remembers that day well—the underwear she’s wearing in the photograph had been pulled down almost immediately after the picture had been taken.

“You still have this?” she asks, turning around to face him, holding the picture up.

A sly smile creeps across Lupin’s face at the sight of it. “Of course I still have it. I wouldn’t get rid of it if my life depended on it.”

“Is the real thing not good enough for you?” Darcy teases, throwing the photograph back into the drawer. She pulls a shirt on over her head, tugging hard.

“The real thing is more than enough for me,” Lupin says, sitting up straighter. Darcy looks away from the sight of his bare chest, hoping he’s missed the blush creep up on her cheeks. “But I do go a long time without seeing you sometimes, kitten.”

“I suppose I should just be flattered you think of me at all when I’m gone.”

When she turns around to face him again, Lupin is flashing her a toothy grin that makes her melt. “More often than you know.”

While Darcy excuses herself from the bedroom to be with Sirius, Lupin takes his time preparing for a shower, moving much slower than usual, and Darcy suspects Lupin’s only trying to giving them space. She appreciates him that much more for it, and Sirius seats himself at the narrow island by the kitchen while Darcy starts breakfast. Sirius watches her carefully, his eyes burning a hole in the back of her head. She cracks a few eggs into a bowl, mixing them furiously with a fork, and then turns around and gives Sirius an incredulous look. “What?” she snaps.

“If you’re going to share a bed, I want you both to wear clothes.”

Speechless, Darcy only continues to glower at him. She turns back towards her eggs, dumping them into a pan and digging around the refrigerator for some fresh bacon they’d bought at the market just yesterday. “If you don’t want to see us naked, then stay out of the bedroom while we’re sleeping.”

“I don’t want to think about my best friend deflowering my goddaughter, all right?”

Darcy scoffs, laying pieces of bacon in a pain. It sizzles and cracks loudly. “Remus didn’t—oh my god, Sirius—he didn’t _deflower_ me.”

“Who did? When? Was it at Hogwarts?”

“Sirius!” Darcy shrieks, turning back to her eggs, her face turning bright red. She stirs them with unnecessary force.“It’s none of your business. And I think that’s an off-limits topic between godfather and goddaughter.”

“I’m just saying,” Sirius grumbles, holding up his hands in surrender. “That kind of behavior is exactly what caused your—”

“I know I was an accident,” Darcy hisses at him over her shoulder. “You don’t have to remind me. Now, would you like to hear about Harry and his dragon or not?”

The prospect seems to appease Sirius, who listens intently as Darcy describes the first task. Sirius is a wonderful audience—he laughs and gasps and claps and snorts along with Darcy’s story, and by the time she finishes, Lupin’s walking out of the bathroom with a clean shaven face, his hair a disheveled and wet mess, and she’s plating breakfast for the three of them.

“It was cute,” Lupin chuckles, sitting down beside Sirius. “She was just like Lily watching James at Quidditch.”

This makes Sirius laugh, his usual bark of laughter that makes Darcy smile. “I was not,” she retorts. “I kept my eyes open the whole time and didn’t cover my eyes once.”

“If Emily and I hadn’t been holding your hands, you would have missed the entire thing,” Lupin says.

Darcy continues to tell Sirius about the events at Hogwarts. She tells him about Hermione’s desire to set house-elves free (Sirius narrows his eyes, but doesn’t say anything, likely out of respect for the girl who’d played a major part in saving his life the previous summer), Gemma’s experiment with Lupin (Sirius seems suspicious of Gemma, whose family is one that Sirius is familiar with, but both Darcy and Lupin talk him down), and Rita Skeeter and her constant prowling around, looking for a story.

“She’s not a friend of yours, is she?” Sirius asks Darcy sardonically.

“Not at all,” Darcy answers firmly. “She’s exploited Remus and myself for a stupid story about romance. I hate her.”

When Darcy gets to the Yule Ball, Sirius seems slightly more interested. She tells him about how she and Lupin and Gemma had planned the entire thing, how it was all for nothing. She details her conversations with Ludo Bagman and Igor Karkaroff, and Sirius listens all the while, stroking the dark beard on his face, nodding along. When he has nothing to say afterwards, Darcy also tells him about the contents of Harry’s letter, preparing to talk about Snape, but Lupin knows her too well.

“And I _told_ her that Severus isn’t a Death Eater any longer,” Lupin interjects, with a long and hard look at Sirius, whose mouth is slightly open, about to speak.

“Maybe he wasn’t a Death Eater for the past few years,” Sirius scowls, speaking directly to Lupin. “But if his Dark Mark is getting clearer again, and if Voldemort is coming back, you don’t know that he won’t go back.”

“I think our chances are pretty good,” Lupin shrugs. “Darcy is in his classroom near everyday, at his side near everyday. You don’t think her presence won’t make him hesitate? You remember what he was like around Lily.”

“I remember very well what he was like around Lily.” Darcy puts her hands in her lap, blushing fiercely, as Sirius continues. “Snape still decided he was going to be a Death Eater even when Lily was his friend for whatever reason—”

“Lily chose James. Lily had Darcy and she had James, and Snape couldn’t bear the idea,” Lupin says, a bit louder. “And now, with Darcy here, around the same age as Severus remembers her mother—”

“Darcy isn’t his second chance,” Sirius counters, scrunching his nose and looking disgusted. “And she chose _you_ —one of James’s friends. If that’s not a slap in the face for him…” The idea makes Sirius smile, and it isn’t a smile that makes him more handsome.

Lupin sighs, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Dark magic was what drove Lily and Severus apart. He’ll remember that the next time he’s forced to make a decision. Staying with Dumbledore, at Hogwarts, means staying with Darcy.”

Darcy’s stomach churns, and Sirius hits his palm on the countertop. “Darcy is not her mother.”

Darcy has the idea then that Sirius isn’t just speaking about Snape anymore. Lupin goes to rub his beard, lowering his hand when he remembers it’s gone. “I know that as well as you do, Sirius. Trust me, _I know_.” When Sirius doesn’t reply, Lupin gets to his feet and puts a hand on Darcy’s shoulder, speaking directly to her. “I have some things to do today. Will you be all right here?”

“Yes,” Darcy forces herself to say. “Sirius is here. I’ll be fine.”

Lupin gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze and he kisses her cheek. “I’ll be back,” he whispers to her, kissing her cheek once more.

“All right—okay—that’s enough,” Sirius snarls, forcing Lupin away from Darcy.

When Lupin leaves, Darcy misses his presence almost immediately. She wishes he’d walk right back through the door, kiss her hard on the mouth, and take her to bed. But after ten minutes of cleaning up breakfast in silence, with Sirius running his hands through his dark hair more than necessary.

“If it bothers you so much, then just say it,” Darcy tells Sirius sharply, drying the dishes slowly. “Instead of brooding.”

“Fine,” Sirius answers, sighing heavily. With her back turned to him, Darcy is reminded of Harry, sighing up a storm instead of throwing a tantrum like when he was young. She rolls her eyes. “I don’t like it. Who gave him the right to look at you like he does, or kiss you, or touch you—”

“ _I_ did.” Darcy spins around to face her godfather. “ _I_ gave him the right to do all of those things.”

“They’ve been writing about you,” Sirius says, his voice a bit softer. Darcy continues to put the dishes away. “I saw the photograph of you and Remus after the first task.”

“And I’m sure you believe all they’ve written?”

Sirius doesn’t answer, and when she turns around again, she notices the tired expression on his face. “I don’t want to fight with you, Darcy,” he frowns. “That’s the very last thing I want to do with you. Just tell me the truth of it.”

_Is this a trick_? “Remus didn’t tell you? The night you were here?”

“No,” Sirius says. “It was a lot of me yelling—and I apologized, so please do _not_ give me that look—and he told me that when you were ready to tell me everything, then I would find out.”

“Oh,” is all she knows what to say. She feels a surge of affection for Lupin—which is a strange feeling for her, considering she already loves him with everything she has. But she sighs deeply, knowing that Sirius deserves the truth. “I guess you want to know everything.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

“Maybe we could get more comfortable first.”

Sirius nods and the two of them make their way to the sofa. Darcy tucks her legs underneath her and lights a fire with a swift flick of her wand. _This is how is all started_ , she thinks, watching the flames. _Sitting on his sofa in front of a fire, a much more intimate act than I had thought at first._

“I don’t—I don’t really know how it started,” she admits with a weak laugh. “The detention he gave me, for drinking on my birthday, I served it with him. We talked, and he told me he’d known my parents, and I just—that’s when things changed for me. I was so excited to be near him, to talk about my parents with him, so we started having dinner together every week in his office.”

Sirius doesn’t look at her as she speaks. It makes her feel better.

“And then after I saw him for what he was—a werewolf—I think things changed again. We saw each other differently, but not—not in a bad way.” Darcy leans back into the sofa, stretching her fingers, craving a hand to hold, fingers to lace with hers. “Our weekly dinners started again, and then the evening of Harry’s first Quidditch match of the season…” She remembers the swarm of dementors—all of them floating around the field. She remembers Harry falling from his broomstick and she’d been screaming, screaming for her brother and for her mother, crying and crying and crying. “Dementors swarmed the field and I saw it happening—I saw my mother dying, just like I do in my dreams sometimes, and Harry fell from his broomstick, and that night I left Harry’s side in the hospital wing and I went to Remus, crying.”

A crease appears between Sirius’s eyebrows. “You remember?” he asks.

“I do,” Darcy whispers, the hair rising on the back of her neck and goosebumps rising up her arms. “I remember sitting in Harry’s crib, and mum kissing me goodbye. I remember the green of the spell Voldemort used to kill her and the red of his eyes as he looked at me. I remember it all.”

Sirius looks at Darcy for a long time, his expression so painful, so hurt.

“Anyway,” she continues, shaking the thought of dementors and dying mothers. “I went to Remus and he brought me into his—hidden room and—and we talked for a long time. I told him about everything, things I had never told anyone else, and he didn’t just tell me everything was going to be all right, he didn’t just sympathize with me or pat me on the back, he did something better. He understood me. He understood my hurts, my pain, my suffering, and I think—I think I loved him then, I just didn’t realize it, and I’d only truly known him for two months.”

How badly she wants to be a little girl again, to curl up in Sirius’s lap and sleep against his chest, just like she used to—just like Harry used to do with her. How badly she wants to be held by someone like a father—to have his fingers thread through her hair, his lips against her cheek to tell her it’s okay. But Darcy isn’t a little girl anymore, and she hasn’t been for a very long time.

She tells Sirius how she and Lupin had held hands, about their innocent flirting and flattering, how comfortable the both of them felt in each other’s presence. Darcy even tells Sirius without blushing about the day after Christmas—how she had kissed Lupin after he’d shown her the photographs of he and his friends as young boys, and the photograph of he and Darcy as a baby. She recalls Patronus lessons with Harry, sitting off to the side doing work and appreciating Lupin’s interactions with her brother, and how in awe of both of them she’d been, overwhelmed with affection for them. She tells him everything—every little detail that she can remember, including the night Lupin had caught her and Oliver in a broom closet, falling asleep on Lupin’s chest that one night, and the things Lupin had said to her when she’d confronted him.

She grows quiet as she reaches the one part of her story that will, no doubt, make her blush. Sirius notices, his feet up on the coffee table. He looks at her, narrowing his eyes as if he knows what’s coming.

“I went to his room the night after the full moon,” she whispers, wiping her sweating palms on her pants, hoping that Lupin will not return home until after she tells Sirius this. “That was the night I told him I loved him. And we—” Her cheeks burn and she avoids Sirius’s eyes at all costs. “That was the night we—you know—for the first time. It was my idea, I swear it. He was gentle with me, and he kept asking me if I was all right and—I was. I was more than all right, I _was_ —”

“Okay,” Sirius says quickly, cutting across her. “Enough. Enough, please.”

“You wanted to know everything,” Darcy hisses, flushing a deep scarlet and crossing her arms.

Sirius smiles wearily. “I didn’t know you’d tell the story in such vivid detail.”

Darcy shrugs. “I guess I’m used to talking to Gemma.” She sighs again, lowering her arms, keeping her eyes on the fire. “Sirius, I—I may have said some things that night that I—I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s all right,” he says, not unkindly. Darcy looks at him, surprised to see that he’s still smiling.

“I just—I thought, that night in the Shrieking Shack, that we would be a family again and I was so happy, but…”

Sirius puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing. “I know we aren’t the family you want to be right now,” he says softly. “But one day we will be.”

Darcy feels the lump form in her throat and tries to force herself not to cry, but the tears are already welling in her eyes. She remembers the dreams she’d had of him, of her eagerness to sleep sometimes if only to feel the love she’d missed out on for so many years. She remembers the hours spent in her dormitory looking at a tiny toddler Darcy sleep on Sirius’s chest, in his arms at her parents’ wedding day. Of her father, no memory she has of him (not that she has more than a small few) has ever been able to elicit the emotion of just one of her memories involving Sirius. The words do not come easy to her, and it’s several drawn out minutes of crying does she finally work up the courage to say them. “I—want you to be my father, Sirius. I want you to make sure that I’m eating all right and that I don’t always go to sleep with music playing or that I’m not doing anything you wouldn’t do, and maybe act slightly indifferent when I tell you gossip about people I know.”

“Your vision of a father is oddly specific,” Sirius notes.

“Emily’s dad used to do it,” she replies. “And besides him and Mr. Weasley, I’ve never really known many fathers.”

Sirius hesitates. “James was your father, Darcy. And James loved you with all that he had. No one will ever be able to replace him as your father, not even me.” He pats her on the knee, something Darcy remembers Mr. Duncan doing to his daughter, as well. “I’ll tell you what—how about, I do all of those things anyway, but as your godfather? Just like your parents intended.”

“You promise?”

He looks at her curiously before answering. “I promise.”

She wants to tell him that she loves him, but the words get caught in her throat. Darcy clenches and unclenches her jaw. “Okay.”


	41. Chapter 41

“Slow down, Darcy, you’re going to rip my cloak by stepping on it.”

“I will not, and it’s _our_ cloak.”

“Darcy, you have to crouch down—you too, Ron. You’re both too tall—” Hermione’s hand lands on Darcy’s shoulder, forcing her down.

“If four seventeen-year-old boys could fit under this cloak, then so can we.”

“I find it highly unlikely that they did fit— _comfortably_ , anyway.” Hermione grabs Ron’s arm to slow his pace.

“Hang on—Darcy, why are you under the cloak in the first place?” Ron asks, bewildered. “You don’t have a curfew anymore.”

The four of them give a few shoves and Darcy emerges from beneath the Invisibility Cloak, the snowy night wind hitting her full in the face. She takes a deep breath of clean, cold air. “That’s right, I’m a teacher,” she says, following the three pairs of footsteps ahead of her. They make more noise than she’d like, with the thick layer of snow crunching beneath their shoes. Darcy pulls her cloak tighter around her as they make their way down the long slope to Hagrid’s.

“Are you, though? A teacher?” Ron chuckles from a place directly in front of her. Even though she can’t see him, Darcy can picture his smile. “Have you actually taught anything yet?”

“Well, you know…” Darcy shrugs, her toe catching a rock. She stumbles, hearing Harry and Ron snicker. “Shut up, you two.”

The four of them move slowly in the snow—Harry, Hermione, and Ron clear a path for Darcy to bring up the rear. Their bodies block the worst of the wind from Darcy’s exposed skin, for which she’s grateful. Darkness continues to settle quickly, the day’s much shorter now in the dead of winter, and by the time they reach Hagrid’s huts, the grounds are lit only by the moon’s reflection on the snow. Darcy is the one to step up to the door, her legs soaking wet, to knock.

“It’s me, Hagrid. It’s us. Open up.”

Fang immediately comes to the other side of the door, whining excitedly, scratching at the wood. Darcy knocks louder, but doesn’t hear any sign of Hagrid inside. There’s no booming voice, no shuffling of chairs, or creaking of floorboards. Darcy continues to knock on the door with Hermione at her side, while Ron and Harry look inside the windows.

Finally, reaching into her cloak pocket, Darcy extracts her wand. She glances at Hermione over her shoulder. “I could just let us in, you know.”

As Darcy raises her wand and points it at the doorknob, Hermione grabs her wrist. “No!” she hisses. “You can’t just barge into his house like that! He’s our friend!”

“He’s avoiding us,” Darcy snaps. “And he’s been avoiding me ever since that stupid article came out, just after the champions were chosen.”

“You know what they said about him,” Hermione urges, lowering her voice still. Fang gives a pathetic whine from the inside of the hut. “I don’t know how Rita found out about him being half-giant, but everything else she said wasn’t true! We know Hagrid, and we certainly don’t hate his classes.”

Darcy raises her eyebrows and Hermione hurriedly looks away. When Harry and Ron come back around the hut to report nothing, they all give it up as a bad job. Harry, Hermione, and Ron don the Invisibility Cloak again and Darcy trails after them back up towards the castle.

“Look what happened when people found out you were involved with Lupin, Darcy,” Hermione pants halfway there. “What do you think will happen to Hagrid?”

“You think people will write him angry letters?” Darcy scoffs. “The smart thing to do would be the burn them without ever opening them. Professor Snape told me sometimes ignorance is bliss. I have to agree with him.”

“He could get fired,” Hermione replies quickly. “Thrown off the grounds, and this is his home.”

“You don’t think they’d do that, do you?” Harry asks, and there’s a heavy silence.

“Letters would be the best case scenario,” Hermione sighs. “I really hope they don’t make Hagrid leave…”

“You never told us what was written in the letters,” Ron says suddenly, and Darcy frowns, hoping he’s not looking at her over his shoulder. “Were they really that bad?”

“They were horrible,” Darcy answers. The images of those letters swim in her head, the contents of them forever memorized. The horror of it all had make her physically ill. “People I’ve never met promised to kill him for me, for my safety, for my love—promised to hunt him like an animal. And one wanted him put down like—”

“Stop it, _please_ ,” Hermione begs softly. Darcy can hardly hear her over the wind in her ears. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

Darcy calms herself, trying to still her racing heart. “Let’s just get back up to the castle. I’m cold.”

* * *

The breaking story of Rita Skeeter’s about Hagrid’s past drives most of Darcy’s thoughts from her head. She had thought that the article would be a perfect way to reconcile her already shaky relationship with Hagrid, but he stops turning up for meals and Darcy can’t seem to catch a glimpse of him anywhere. He’s even stopped teaching classes altogether, with Professor Grubbly-Plank back to fill in for him. Carla raves about her, which Darcy thinks is a massive betrayal on Carla’s part.

It isn’t until Karkaroff lets himself in Snape’s classroom after class one day that Darcy remembers just how much she hates the both of them. Karkaroff smiles at her, the same smile he gave her at the Yule Ball, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. Snape hardly looks at Karkaroff, but tells Darcy to leave them alone.

“I don’t want to leave,” she protests. “I want to stay here.”

After angry hissing and murmuring in which Darcy only catches a few out of context words, Snape finally persuades Karkaroff to leave the classroom. Darcy keeps her eyes fixed on Snape, wondering if she dares bring up the topic. Part of her is afraid that Snape will give her a good smack to shut her up—yet for all of Snape’s flaws, he’s never once hit her, so she doesn’t know that she should be so afraid of that. And she doesn’t truly believe Snape would send her away, back to the Dursleys; Dumbledore might chastise her for asking too many questions or bringing up things she doesn’t understand, but she wants to hear it from Snape’s mouth. To hear Lupin’s defense of Snape suddenly isn’t enough, so after she and Snape stand in the silent classroom for a few minutes, she proceeds recklessly.

“I know what you are,” she whispers, and Snape freezes, his hands still in the middle of gathering his classroom materials off his desk. He looks up at her and narrows his eyes, confused. “I know you have the Dark Mark branded on your arm. _Show me_.” Her voice sounds so unlike herself then, she thinks—soft, but commanding. It is not a request, it is a demand, but Snape doesn’t bother to indulge her.

“Who do you think you are?” he spits, visibly shocked that she would say such a thing to him. “You go too far, Darcy. It would be wise to shut your mouth and leave this classroom now.”

“Show me your arm,” she insists quietly. When he doesn’t move to roll up his sleeve, Darcy reaches over the desk for his wrist. Her fingers clamp around it and Snape flinches, jerking his arm away from her. She doesn’t know why then, but she feels tears well in her eyes—perhaps it’s the knowledge that this man she’s been working so closely with is a Death Eater and no one had thought to tell her. “Why should I trust you after all you’ve done to me?”

“All I’ve done to you? I saved your life, saved you from bleeding out in this very classroom, saved you again from the Shrieking Shack in June, allowed you a place at my side at Hogwarts. You know nothing,” he says in a venomous tone. “Your usual arrogance showing itself once again—speaking as if you know everything, talking as if you know even the tiniest shred of truth.”

She’d quiet for a moment, but Snape takes advantage of her silence before she can think of what to say.

“Is this what Lupin whispers in your ear after he charms and beds you?” he continues. “I should have known your father’s good for nothing friend would try to turn you against me out of pure pettiness and spite—”

“He _defended_ you,” Darcy interjects, anger coursing through her. “Even after what you did to him.”

“What I did?” Snape scoffs, his face drained of all color. “And what about what he did to me?”

“He didn’t do anything to you—he wasn’t involved in that stupid prank!”

Snape opens his mouth to continue speaking, but shuts it almost immediately.

Darcy hesitates. “Did you put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“What do you think?”

He’s got her there. Darcy doesn’t believe that Snape truly did it, and Snape knows she knows that. “Remus says you’re no longer one of them, that if Dumbledore trusts you, then we should trust you, too.” Darcy inhales deeply when Snape refuses to answer. “Prove it.”

“Excuse me?” Snape scowls. “Get out, Darcy.”

“Prove to me that you’re not a Death Eater anymore.” They stare at each other for a long time from across the desk. She remembers what Gemma had told her all those months ago. “You can’t, can you?”

Snape moves quicker than she could ever imagine; he sidesteps around the desk and clutches the front of her robes tight, pulling her close. His long, hooked nose nearly touches hers and Darcy’s heart races inside her chest, but she forces herself not to show him her fear. “Do I frighten you, Darcy?” he breathes, thin lips curling into a sneer. He gives her a slight shake and Darcy looks away from him. “ _Look at me_. You’re afraid that I’m going to kill you, is that it? You’re afraid that I’ll go back to the Dark Lord when he comes back?”

Darcy closes her eyes for a split second, finally raising them to look at Snape’s black ones again. Cold, unreadable, harsh. With a tense jaw and her heart leaping in her throat, Darcy growls, “I looked Voldemort in the eyes before he murdered my mother right in front of me.” She thinks Snape’s face softens then—just barely. “You don’t frighten me.”

Snape releases her and she stumbles backwards, into the wall, rubbing her chest where he’d held her robes. Her chest heaves with each breath she takes. “Don’t say his name,” Snape snarls at her.

“I’m not afraid of the name, either.” She catches her breath, standing up straight again. “Prove to me that you’re not one of them anymore.”

“Proof?” Snape repeats bitterly, almost spitting the word in her face. “What do you want from me, Darcy? I should have left you in the Shrieking Shack that night.”

His words are worse than a slap in the face—so much worse. For a moment, her heart stops, her world stops. To hear those words from Snape’s mouth is to know true heartbreak. “You don’t mean that,” she rasps, letting the tears come.

“Don’t I?”

“You’re hurting my feelings.”

Snape almost laughs, watching her incredulously. “When have you ever cared for my feelings? All you’ve done the past few months is remind me how much you hate me, if I recall correctly.” He waves her away and turns his back on her. “Get out.”

Yet at dinner that night, the two of them are polite to each other with everyone watching. They engage in small talk and don’t mention anything they’d spoken of inside his classroom, though she’s sure Snape notices her red-rimmed eyes, swollen and puffy and bloodshot. Snape even spoons some mashed potatoes onto her plate when Darcy asks him to pass them to her.

The rest of the week is some of the worst days Darcy can ever remember having since the start of term. The news that Hagrid is half-giant seems to remind many of the crueler students of Darcy’s ongoing romance with a different ‘halfbreed’, and no one likes to mock her more than a certain Draco Malfoy, who takes every opportunity to throw Lupin’s condition in her face and comment on her friendship with Hagrid. A seventh year Slytherin who had never given her any trouble before asks her if she likes beasts between her legs—unfortunately for him, Professor McGonagall is in earshot and she drags the boy off by the ear directly to Professor Dumbledore’s office, threatening to give him detentions for the rest of the year. Carla tells Darcy she’s heard whispers from others about Professor Snape nursing a soft spot for Darcy because of her reputation with teachers, and Gemma confides in her that one sixth year who’d been sent to the hospital wing had asked her if Lupin mounts her as a wolf during the full moon, and Madam Pomfrey (who, according to Gemma, had been angrier than she’d ever seen after overhearing the comment) had told Dumbledore, as well.

“Ignore them, Darcy,” Gemma urges her in Hogsmeade one night. “He’s a good man, and you should be proud.”

Darcy wonders what she’s done to deserve such hateful things to be spewed at her—she wonders what Lupin has ever done to deserve being spoken of the way he is, or what Hagrid has done to be looked down upon for something he couldn’t help. But on Friday, something happens after classes that makes Darcy think the week might be better than she’d originally thought.

As she makes her way down the marble staircase for dinner, the front doors open and two people stroll through. One of them is Professor Dumbledore, smiling serenely with his hands held in front of him, clad only in his usual robes with a traveling cloak wrapped loosely around his shoulders. The other is a young woman, hidden beneath layers of sweaters and a heavy coat, a knitted hat pulled low to her eyebrows. But Darcy doesn’t need to see more than her face to recognize her, and she runs down the stairs.

“Emily!”

“Ah, just in time,” Dumbledore says as Darcy and Emily embrace tightly. “Miss Duncan, why don’t you share your exciting news with your friend?”

“I’ve been promoted at the _Prophet_ ,” Emily smiles. “I’m no longer just a lowly editor-in-training, but now a regular contributor for the Magical Games and Sports section, just like mum was. They’ve allowed me to cover the Triwizard Tournament. Barnabas Cuffe said it was because Rita Skeeter wasn’t allowed on the ground anymore, and Professor Dumbledore told Cuffe he’d grant me a one-on-one interview, but I’ll take it. That’s why I’m here—for my interview.”

“That’s so wonderful,” Darcy gasps, taking Emily’s hands in hers and squeezing. “Your mother would be so proud of you, Emily. But what of your Auror training? Aren’t you still doing that?”

“Course I am,” Emily answers, suddenly sounding very weary. “Tonks says that it’s good for me to have access to all the stories that get considered for the _Daily Prophet_. It’s a good source of information, even if it’s not all true. She says it’ll help me learn what to believe and what not to.”

“Wise words spoken by a wise woman, indeed,” Dumbledore agrees. “Miss Duncan, perhaps you’d like to take dinner in my office? The perfect setting for an interview, I think. When we’re finished, perhaps Darcy would be kind enough to show you her accommodations?”

“Oh—that’s kind, but I can’t stay long,” Emily says, giving Darcy a sad and forced smile. “I have to get started on some articles I’ve been writing. Maybe another time, Darcy?”

Darcy’s heart sinks. “Okay.”

* * *

“Come on, Darcy—you knew this would happen.”

“Hey! Watch where you put your hands, Gemma.”

“Sorry. Give me a deep breath,” she murmurs quickly, rolling her eyes and looking back up to Darcy. “Emily’s always been career driven, and after her mother—this was her dream, and you know that.”

“It’s like the last seven years of our lives were nothing to her,” Darcy replies, laying back on the back and rubbing her face. “It’s like she’s forgotten about me.”

Gemma frowns at her, waiting to speak for a moment as she feels for Lupin’s pulse. “She hasn’t forgotten about you,” she says. “You think Emily’s once written me? You think Carla writes to me? It’s disappointing, but you should have known we all couldn’t be carefree kids forever. Everyone makes empty promises about staying in touch, but they hardly ever do.”

“Emily was so invested in my life since I was eleven, and now it’s like she couldn’t care less about what I’ve been doing, how I’ve been doing.”

“Listen, I’d say you made out pretty well,” Gemma shrugs, rolling up Lupin’s sleeve and disregarding his feeble protests. “You’ve got us.” She touches the violent scar on his arm, making Lupin flinch. Even from the bed, Darcy can see that Gemma doesn’t feel the need to be as gentle as Darcy is when touching Lupin. “Can I take a sample of your scar? Just a tiny one?”

“No,” Lupin snaps, pulling out of Gemma’s hold and forcing his sleeve back down. “Why would you ask that?”

“Research purposes. But no matter, I’ll have Darcy just cut me a sample while you’re sleeping.”

“She won’t,” Lupin retorts, casting Darcy a skeptical glance. “Will you?”

“No,” Darcy answers, sitting up to give him an incredulous look. “Of course I won’t.”

Gemma shakes her head, moving over to the small table in the room and beckoning Lupin over to her. Darcy follows, if only for something to do besides sulk on the bed, and she smiles when Lupin wraps his arm around her shoulders, holding her close. “How are you on money?” she asks distractedly, digging around in her trunk.

“Fine,” Lupin tells her shortly. “I’ve still got some left over.”

“Here,” Gemma says, pulling out a small sack of money. “I know the deal was we wait until the full moon wanes, but I won’t tell if you don’t.” She pushes the money across the table towards him and pulls two more things from her trunk. The first she holds up is a vial the size of Darcy’s middle finger, but much thicker. “We took the base of last month’s potion since it worked so well and we tweaked a few things to curb the aggressiveness and soreness. This is only good for up to seventy-two hours, so take it quickly.” Then, Gemma slides a large jar towards him full of what looks like smoking water. “And here’s the potion that truly matters. Enough for the coming week and then some. If something happens, just stop by the hospital and I’ll get you some more. Now, is it time for dinner? I’m starving.”

The three of them take dinner in The Three Broomsticks that night, and Darcy does a lot of picking at her food. Despite the heartache that she associates with the awkwardness and distance between she and Emily—and even Carla at this point—Darcy can’t help but to feel that Gemma’s right. _You have us_. She watches Gemma and Lupin interact, filling the silence when they realize Darcy isn’t much in the mood for conversing.

They bicker, as always, but not in the way that Lupin and Emily do. Gemma means well and Darcy knows that, and also knows she only enjoys pushing his buttons to get a reaction out of him—which, more often than not, Gemma does get a reaction from him. Lacking a filter, Gemma laughs when he blushes, completely exasperated with her. It makes Darcy smile weakly, as well, to meet Lupin’s eyes after such blunt and bold comments and see the pink tint to his cheekbones.

After their conversation comes to a lull, Lupin looks to his right, down at Darcy and her plate, hardly touched. Gemma is quick to notice and she reaches across the table to take Darcy’s hand. “I’ve got to go,” she says with a sweet smile—a smile that Darcy knows Lupin could never get out of her. “But I’ll be in and out over the next few days.”

“Thanks.” But as Gemma leaves the pub, Darcy privately wishes she would stay. The evenings spent around a dinner table with Lupin and Gemma make her feel part of a family. She wonders if nights like these being such joy to either Lupin or Gemma, as well.

“Not hungry?” Lupin asks, his lips close to her ear. He presses a soft kiss to her temple. “Eat something, Darcy.”

“I can’t,” she sighs. “I’m not hungry. Can we just go upstairs? I still haven’t told you about my latest argument with Professor Snape.”

“Another one? I’m surprised he hasn’t already kicked you all the way back to Privet Drive by now.”

Darcy frowns. “I hope he never will.”

The following week tests her limits. Emily doesn’t return to Hogwarts that week, and Gemma writes Darcy a letter apologizing for not being able to check on Lupin, as the hospital has had a surge of patients and she’s needed. She promises to come back Friday, the day before the full moon, and urges Darcy to write should either of them need anything urgent. Carla is polite to Darcy in passing, but is never alone, always surrounded by a gaggle of Hufflepuff girls, giggling and slightly wary of Darcy. Even Darcy and Harry get into it while they have dinner one night, after Darcy shouts at him for not taking up Cedric’s idea and using the bathroom to figure out his egg.

“Just do it, Harry!” she growls. “The task is only a month away and you’ve done nothing—”

“That’s not true!” Harry counters defensively, standing up so abruptly, his chair falls over. “I’ve been trying—”

“Sitting in your bed and looking at it isn’t trying!” Darcy shouts. “It’s time for you to start working towards figuring it out!”

Between that, the bitter and angry letter Darcy had forced herself to write to Mrs. Weasley at Mr. Weasley firm insistence, Hermione chattering in her ear about Hagrid and Rita Skeeter and even sometimes S.P.E.W., and Ron always looking for someone to play Exploding Snap or chess with, Darcy finds herself snapping at everyone a little easier. She regrets it almost immediately afterwards, and tries to siphon off her anger the best way she knows how during her evenings with Lupin in Hogsmeade, but she can’t even do _that_. It’s an awkward realization that makes her feel undesirable and Lupin snaps at her when she suggests bringing it to Gemma’s attention, but all of his sweet kisses and words of love and praise and reassurance don’t make her feel better. She confronts Gemma about it in the hospital wing Friday night before they make the journey down the Hogsmeade together. Gemma sees Darcy storm inside the empty infirmary, raising her eyebrows and taking a seat on the end of a cot. Darcy sits on the one across from her.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Darcy hisses. “You have to do something about the potion you gave him. You _have_ to.”

Gemma opens and closes her mouth, looking horrified. “What’s happened? Lupin’s not—I mean, he’s all right, isn’t he? I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

“He’s fine, he just—” Darcy sighs, struggling to admit it to Gemma. Lupin had begged her night after night not to say anything, but Darcy knows that Gemma needs to know. She runs her fingers through her hair, inhaling deeply. “He can’t—well—his—he says it’s not me, it’s the potion and—Gemma, please don’t make me say it, please.”

Gemma claps her hands to her mouth, and Darcy appreciates the effort she puts towards trying not to laugh. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry, I know it’s not funny, but it’s a little funny.” She lowers her hands, throws back her head and laughs.

“Are you done?” Darcy asks shortly.

“Yes, yes—I’m sorry.” Gemma continues to smile. “Why are you just telling me this now, though? One day before the full moon?”

“I need you to reverse it,” Darcy pleads. “These past two weeks have been a nightmare and I need you to do this for me, Gemma.”

“I can’t just reverse it, Darcy, I’m sorry,” Gemma frowns, keeping her smile at bay for a moment. “It should wear off in a few days and he’ll be back to normal. Until then, can’t you guys just—?”

Darcy’s voice grows shrill, an echoing squeak. “I need to be _fucked_!” She breathes heavily, unsure of what’s come over her. “I need to _fuck_. I have so much anger in me right now, that if I don’t do it soon and get rid of it all, I think I’ll explode.”

Gemma stares at her with wide eyes, blinking in surprise after a few minutes. “Who are you? What would Emily say if she knew you were having a breakdown because you couldn’t fuck your old teacher?”

Darcy fixes Gemma with a stony gaze.

“All right, how about this instead? Tomorrow is a Hogsmeade trip, isn’t it? We can hang out with Harry and Carla and Hermione and Ron, and since it’s full moon, we can have a sleepover. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“None of that involves me getting off,” Darcy notes. “Gemma, I don’t think you understand what this is doing to me. Isn’t there a potion, or—?”

“Yes, there is a potion, and it takes five days to brew. Do you have five days to wait?” Gemma answers. “And I’m not going to steal some from St Mungo’s just so Lupin can get it up for one night.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“We are, but that’s where I draw the line.” Gemma stands up, pulling Darcy to her feet and towards the doors, ready to make their way down through the snow and to the village. Gemma gives her a sideways look every so often, finally muttering, “You _really_ need a new hobby.”

“Shut up.”

 


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know it’s been a few days, but I am sick w like 5 different things and I’m dying

She’s incredibly underdressed for the occasion, not having planned to be outside for such a long time. The cold had stung her eyes at first and make her skin burn, but now her ears and nose and fingers are red and numb, and Darcy ignores her watery eyes and wind blown, tangled hair. She raises the cigarette to her lips, a gift from Gemma, another way to siphon off all of her negative feelings and ease her constantly racing heart. It works much better than Darcy thought at first—the first drag off her first cigarette in a long time had been good—the taste was a little off, but once she started, she could stop, and since Madam Rosmerta wouldn’t let smoke cigarettes inside her pub, Darcy had walked outside and kept walking, lighting cigarette after cigarette. After another long drag, she throws the butt on the ground and steps on it.

By now, the sun is starting to go down, and the full moon is growing closer—in a few hours, Lupin will be holed away in the Shrieking Shack, in the ramshackle building in front of her, suffering another lonely transformation. Darcy watches the wind blow the shutters open and closed, slamming against partially boarded up windows, making a noise that echoes up and down the High Street of Hogsmeade. When the wind picks up again, it howls as it flows through the cracks of the siding, making a ghostly noise that makes the hair on the back of Darcy’s neck stand up. The Shrieking Shack seems to creak ominously, shifting restlessly and threatening to collapse. An out of place building in a village of shops and apartments with thatched roofs and lights burning yellow in the window—a village whose villagers don’t realize the source of the screams and cries are not that of angry spirits, but of a man in pain, suffering, alone.

The trees that surround the Shrieking Shack are all dead by now, in the middle of January. Their branches are bare, the bark peeling in many places, dead and rotting. The walkway that leads up to the bolted and boarded front door is covered with snow, hiding the wild weeds and overgrown, yellow and dead grass that is typically visible. It’s an ugly sight, terrifying enough to keep even the bravest at bay, and Darcy remembers her own experiences within the home. Her right hand slowly and unconsciously finds its way to her shoulder.

Darcy reaches into her cloak pocket, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it with a snap of her wrist and a flick of her wand. She wraps the slender fingers of her left hand around the rusting iron gate that surrounds the yard of the Shrieking Shack. It’s quiet, except for the howling wing and settling house. No one is talking in her ear, expecting an answer. No one is looking at her with a furrowed brow, worried for her wellbeing, looking at her as if concerned she might fracture or break.

Gemma was the worst of them. Once, Gemma never had been known to be the coddling sort, had never fussed over Darcy like Emily had. She knows her friends only mean well, but Darcy felt herself grow restless whenever Gemma’s brown eyes would fix upon her face back at the Three Broomsticks, looking sad and solemn and remorseful.

“You should get out of here,” Gemma had urged her just last night as they had been making the journey down to Hogsmeade. “Pack up your things and go. Run away—get married, have a baby, maybe a dog. Run as far away as you can, Darcy, where no one will ever find you.”

“Why would I run?” she’d asked, though the thought had appealed greatly to her in the heat of the moment.

“To live,” was Gemma’s answer. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? So go do it before it’s too late.”

A scowl had crossed her face then. It was only a dream, just like going into the Ministry with Emily. “That’s stupid,” Darcy had snapped. “I can’t just do that.”

“Why not?”

But Darcy didn’t have to tell Gemma why. Gemma knows why, had always known, had always kept relatively quiet where Harry was concerned. What kind of sister would she be to up and leave like that? People would call her a coward, a deserter, a traitor to her own family—the last of her true family.

But Darcy privately thinks Gemma’s right. She needs to escape Hogwarts. Over the past few weeks, the corridors and classrooms and even her own private room seems suffocating, like the walls of a prison. Despite Dumbledore allowing her freedom of the grounds and being able to leave during evenings and weekends, Darcy can’t help but feel trapped, like a prisoner—the very thing she’d feared most.

Casting a quick look over her shoulder at the street, Darcy puts her cigarette out and climbs over the small, iron fence. Walking up the small slope towards the Shrieking Shack is tiring with the snow piling up on the already weedy ground, and Darcy Vanishes her footprints, not wanting anyone too curious to come lurking. When she reaches the house, she walks around the side and to the back. Two windows have been boarded up and she tries to pry them off. With a few quick flicks of her wand, Darcy is able to climb inside.

It’s dark inside still, but Darcy finds a fireplace and lights a fire. The ceiling is taller than she’d thought at first, and shadows flicker on the walls, making the entire room seem eerie and queerly still. It’s a large room, empty, with the wooden walls and floors covered in scratch marks. Darcy removes her cloak from around her shoulders as the fire warms her.

She makes her way upstairs to look at the wall she’d been thrown against. It’s lighter up here, with the setting sun filtering in through the broken and half-boarded windows. On the foot just outside one of the rooms is a large, dark stain. The blood that had drained from her shoulder the night she’d followed Lupin. Darcy kneels down and puts the tip of her wand to the floor. “ _Scourgify_ ,” she whispers, and the blood disappears within seconds.

Darcy pokes her head in the room where she’d reunited with Sirius, her heart aching. What seemed like simpler times, almost. She remembers seeking out Lupin’s comfort the following morning, waiting for him to come back to her.

She jumps back down the stairs, warming herself in front of the fire again. Gemma’s words echo inside of her head, over and over again, words that make Darcy’s stomach churn in a strange way. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d always privately wanted to be a mother, to prove that she could do what Aunt Petunia could not for her. She’d wanted a family that would love her, and that would be good enough. _It was a dream, only a dream_. _One that frightens me, and excites me._

The wind rushes through the window, sending a shiver down Darcy’s spine. She huddles closer to the fire, trying to imagine a future with Lupin, something that doesn’t come easily to her, especially with her future so uncertain. She hasn’t thought about settling down so much lately with everything that’s been going on, but she pictures herself running off with him as Gemma had suggested. Running away to a small house with just enough space for them. She pictures herself cooking them dinner every night, her cooking improving with every night. Maybe they’d watch the seven o’clock news every night like they do at Lupin’s own home. Darcy would plant flowers all around the front of their house, and she’d paint the house yellow. _Have a baby_ , Gemma had said. Darcy tries to see herself as a mother—a real mother to a baby boy with Lupin’s face, and Lupin would play with him as a proud father would.

Harry would come to visit for dinner, of course. Twice a week, maybe more. She’d miss him. And Gemma would visit, and they’d have Christmas dinner together and count down the seconds until the new year rings in. They’d be a family—they’d all love each other and not have to hide it so much.

 _It’s just a dream_ , she tells herself again. But it makes her cry all the same. She curses herself for being who she is—curses herself for the things that have happened to her. If she was anyone else in the world, things would be easy. But it will never be easy for her, and it never has been. _Why would he ever marry me when I’ve made him a pariah? What would stop him from waking up one morning and realizing I’m not worth it? When will my kisses suddenly taste bitter to him instead of sweet? When will he realize that caring for me is more work than he’d originally thought?_

Darcy picks up a thick stick, meaning to throw it into the fire, but instead she hesitates. She stands up and holds it out like a sword in front of her, remembering with ease the weight of Godric Gryffindor’s sword in her hand. She slashes the air in front of her as she’s slashed at the basilisk, letting the Shrieking Shack around her transform into the Chamber of Secrets. The air becomes colder, and the shadows of the flames licking up the scratched walls look like snakes, and the room is suddenly still and silent—

She’d been a hero, Dumbledore told her that day. She’d been a hero to go down there with Harry—she’d been a true Gryffindor, he’d said. Gemma had always called her ‘my brave Gryffindor’ and ‘my little lion’ and Darcy had always swelled with pride. But what did it mean to be a Gryffindor? All those things the Sorting Hat had said over the years—brave, noble, chivalrous.

 _I am none of those things_ , she thinks, lowering the stick. The crackling of the fire comes back to her, warmth flooding her body. _I am just a scared little girl_. _Too scared to run off and live a happy life, and scared to remain here_. _But I’m tired. I’m so, so tired_. _To run away would be a relief from the weight that I’ve been forced to carry._

Darcy puts the fire out quickly and escapes the confining walls of the Shrieking Shack, hurrying back down to the street. As she turns back into the busy High Street, she crashes into someone. Fingers wrap around her arm and Ludo Bagman manages to catch her before she goes tumbling down to the ground. Chests heaving, they look at each other for a moment, chuckling softly.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasps, brushing herself off. Ludo releases her, taking a step back. “I didn’t see you there, Mr. Bagman.”

“You all right, my dear?”

Darcy nods, smiling at him. His hair seems slightly out of place, his forehead damp with sweat. “Are you well?”

“Fine, darling, fine, don’t worry about me. Care to walk?”

She’s on the brink of making an excuse to return to her friends, to Lupin, but Darcy remembers running off on him at the Yule Ball and feels she owes him at least a walk. Darcy nods again and he holds out his arm automatically for her to take, which she does. When her fingers curl around his arm, Darcy remembers the many times last year that she and Lupin would wander the grounds, Darcy holding onto him this same way. Darcy had found the act so simple and so intimate, an innocent act of trust.

“I’m so sorry about the Yule Ball, Mr. Bagman,” she says softly, nodding politely to a few third years who wave at her from the front of a shop. “I never meant to be rude.”

Ludo pats her hand, smiling weakly. “You’re a sweet girl, Darcy.”

She expects him to say more, or to elaborate, but he doesn’t. The silence is awkward and heavy. They walk slowly down the street, smiling at passerby—some women recognize Ludo and swoon as he passes, other students grin at Darcy, greeting her as she passes.

“Tell me about him,” Ludo says with a smile finally. “This Remus Lupin we’ve all heard so much about. That is where you went after the Yule Ball, was it not?”

Darcy flushes a deep red, looking down at her feet. “Oh—I—I don’t know—” She sighs heavily, holding on tighter to Ludo. “I’ve ruined him. I’ve made him a pariah.”

Ludo’s quiet for a moment, shifting uncomfortably. “He was already a pariah before you, Darcy,” he replies slowly. “Werewolves have been seen that way for years—dangerous, beastly, not to be trusted.”

“But people _hate_ him now,” she protests, frowning. “They hate him solely because of what he is and because he loves me. None of those people care about my safety—they don’t know what he says to me, how gentle his touches are.”

“You are not to blame for that,” Ludo insists as they approach the entrance to The Three Broomsticks. Darcy lets go of him and wraps her arms around herself. “Surely he must have known what people would think. Surely you knew what people would say.”

Darcy chews the inside of her cheek. “I didn’t know,” she whispers, allowing a couple to slip behind her and through the door to the pub. She’s shuffled a bit closer to Ludo, and she continues to blush furiously. “I didn’t realize that people could be so hateful. I was so in love with him—I thought it would be like that forever. Just the two of us, forever, and no one else any the wiser.”

Ludo considers her, looking her over almost critically, his eyes seemingly full of pity. She looks away sheepishly. “If you think that the world will be kind to you because you are kind to it, then you will always be disappointed. You are still so young, Darcy, and still so innocent,” he says, placing a hand on her cheek. Darcy wants to argue, to tell Ludo that she’s no such thing, but all she does is lower her head, closing her eyes and allowing Ludo to kiss her hair.

 _CLICK_!

Darcy jumps and turns around, blinking. There’s a tinkling as the door to The Three Broomsticks shuts. Rita Skeeter is smiling sweetly at Darcy and Ludo, her jeweled glasses gleaming in the red sun, a piece of parchment floating at her shoulder with her Quick Quotes Quill scribbling away. Her photographer lowers his camera—a squat man with a pallid complexion, a hat pulled low to throw his eyes into shadow. His dark mustache is bushy and groomed, streaked with silver hairs. Ludo grabs Darcy roughly by the arm, pulling her behind him.

“What is this?” Rita asks, stepping close to them. “Quite the cozy conversation, yes? Do tell us, Ludo, what you’ve been talking about.”

“It’s none of your business,” Darcy snaps before Ludo can answer. She steps up to Ludo’s side, her nose scrunched. “You should be ashamed of what you wrote about Hagrid. He’s my friend, and a good man besides.”

“Ashamed?” Rita clucks. She reaches out with her long and bony fingers, grabbing Darcy’s chin. Darcy flinches, but Rita doesn’t pull away. Rita turns Darcy’s head to the left and right, looking down her nose into Darcy’s face, giving her cheek a quick pat. “Such a beautiful face, a nice young body, a quick mind—or so others say. Such a shame it’s all wasted on that beast of yours.”

Darcy bristles, pulling her face out of Rita’s grasp. “Don’t call him that.” She watches the acid green quill scribble faster. “Professor Dumbledore said you weren’t allowed on the grounds anymore.”

“Am I on the grounds?” Rita asks, putting her hands on her hips. “Hogsmeade is as good a place as any to find a story. I bet you’re very proud of your friend, aren’t you? Don’t think I don’t know it’s only because of that crackpot Dumbledore that she got promoted.”

“Emily deserves it,” Darcy retorts. “More than you do. Emily would never write such horrible things about people.”

Rita’s eyes flick to Ludo again. She sneers at him. “I write the truth,” she continues, looking at Darcy again. “There are things I know about Ludo that would change everything for you—”

“Mr. Bagman has been far kinder to me than you ever have,” Darcy interrupts, and Ludo gives her a warm smile. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it. I must be going now, excuse me.”

Darcy shoulders her way past Rita and her photographer, letting herself into The Three Broomsticks. It’s busy tonight, as it always is on Saturday evenings, but Gemma, Carla, Harry, Hermione, and Ron are all seated at a round table with a few empty chairs. When she approaches them, Gemma opens her mouth to speak, but Hermione gets to her feet and grabs Darcy’s hand.

“We’re going to see Hagrid,” she says firmly, pulling Darcy away from the table. “I can’t stand that woman! How dare she publish lies about him? How dare she ruin a good man’s name for the sake of fame?”

“Hermione, that sounds like a wonderful idea, but—could you possibly just—give me one moment?”

Hermione stops and whirls around, dropping Darcy’s hand as Harry and Ron join them. “We need to go now, before it gets dark,” Hermione protests, frowning.

“It’s full moon tonight, Hermione,” Gemma says from her seat at the table. At her left side is Darcy’s plate, just the way she’d left it—untouched. Next to her empty chair is where Lupin had been sitting, squeezed in between Darcy and Ron. His plate has been picked at, but Darcy knows that his nerves act up so close to the full moon and his appetite is nearly non-existent during these times. “Be a good girl and give Darcy a moment.”

“Oh, right…” Hermione softens and nods. “Sorry, Darcy. We’ll wait down here for you.”

Darcy gives Gemma a grateful smile, but she doesn’t notice, too engrossed in conversation with Carla, an arm thrown around the back of her chair. She sneaks up the stairs and to Lupin’s room. The door is unlocked, and when she walks in, Lupin slings a bag over his shoulder, standing up straight.

“Where have you been, Darcy?” he asks quietly, taking a few steps closer to her. Lupin lowers the bag to the ground, taking her hands in his. “I looked everywhere for you. You said you’d be right back and you—you were gone for hours.”

“I just needed to be alone. I’m sorry.” Darcy squeezes his hands gently, his palms so warm, always warm. “Do you have to go?”

Lupin sighs. “You know that I do.”

“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,” she pleads, falling into his chest. Lupin hesitates before wrapping his arms loosely around her. “Please, stay—you’ve had your potion, I’m not afraid—”

“I know you’re not afraid,” Lupin answers, holding her at arm's length. “I have to go. You know why. But I’ll be back here at first light. Will you wait for me?”

Darcy clenches her jaw, nodding.

“Good girl.” He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?” She doesn’t answer, and Lupin checks his watch—the watch Darcy had gotten him for Christmas, she realizes, her stomach giving a pleasurable turn. He picks up his bag again, glancing out the window. “I have to go, my love. Don’t think I’ll have forgotten this by morning.”

Darcy nods again, grabbing the front of his cloak to adjust it, brushing it off. “Will you be all right?”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” he says, giving her a tired smile.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better about it.” Darcy runs her fingers through his hair. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

“I hope so.” He kisses her once more and hurries to the door. As he’s halfway through it, Darcy calls out, “I love you.”

Lupin flashes a small smile at her before closing the door. His smile makes Darcy’s heart stop momentarily, but she wishes—just this one time—he would have said it back.

* * *

“He’s ignoring us,” Darcy mutters as Hermione bangs on the cabin door. She takes her wand out as Hermione begins to yell again, pointing it at the door, but as she prepares to unlock it, the door swings wide open. Darcy looks up and blushes, tucking her wand back into her cloak pocket. “Professor Dumbledore—is Hagrid home?”

“Come in,” Dumbledore smiles, admitting the four of them entrance.

Fang makes for Darcy immediately and she kneels down to pet him, scratching at his ears. She remembers him as he was in her first year when she’d first met him—small enough to sit in your lap. They all shuffle awkwardly around in the cramped room, and Darcy stands so her friends and Dumbledore can sit at the table with Hagrid. Fang lies down at her feet, whining.

Hagrid doesn’t look well—his hair is a bushier nest than usual, his eyes swollen and puffy from crying. He cups a large cup filled with tea in his oversized hands, keeping his eyes fixed upon it.

Dumbledore turns to Darcy, smiling politely. “Would you indulge an old man, Darcy, and fetch the tea from the stove?”

“Yes, sir.” Darcy squeezes past Hagrid, Fang following at her heels. She collects the kettle and three extra cups, deciding that she’d rather not force herself to drink anymore tea than she absolutely has to.

As she refills Dumbledore’s cup, he thanks her and holds his hands together on the table. “Did you, by any chance, hear what Miss Granger was shouting?” he asks Hagrid. “These four fine people still seem to want to know you.”

Darcy and Hermione exchange a quick look as Darcy moves on to Ron. “Of course we still want to know you, Hagrid,” Harry says incredulously. “Why would I listen to anything that Skeeter cow has to say after everything she’s written about my sister and Lupin?” He thanks Darcy, as well, when she fills his cup. Darcy gives him a smile.

“Hagrid, I love a werewolf. Why would you ever think I wouldn’t want to be friends with you just because you’re half-giant?” Darcy asks.

“Yeah,” Hagrid says gruffly as Darcy begins to empty the kettle into his large cup. “And I bin meanin’ ter talk to yeh ‘bout tha’—”

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore interrupts. Darcy quickly finishes filling everyone’s cups and the Headmaster conjures a chair beside him, urging Darcy to sit. She does, blushing all the while. “Darcy and her friends have come down here to comfort you during a particularly hard time for you. Surely you would not chastise her now?”

Hagrid’s face grows red beneath his unruly beard. “Of course, Professor Dumbledore… sorry, Darcy…”

“However,” Dumbledore continues, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I am so sorry to even ask this of you, Hagrid, especially since she has just arrived, but may I borrow Darcy for a moment?”

It’s quiet in the cabin for a moment. Everyone looks at Darcy, but Hagrid is the one who answers. “Of course, of course…”

“Come, Darcy. It will only be a moment.”

“Yes, Professor,” Darcy says breathlessly. She stands and gives Fang a few last scratches beneath his chin. “I’ll be right back.”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron, and Hagrid watch her leave with a frown. Dumbledore opens the door for Darcy, and as soon as she sets foot in the snow again and hears the door close behind her, she knows what is coming. Dumbledore is going to ask her, knowing the answer already: _Have you been kind to Professor Snape, Darcy?_

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said those things to Professor Snape,” Darcy says quickly, before Dumbledore gets the chance to ask the question. “I shouldn’t have taken it so far, sir, but he said he should have left me in the Shrieking Shack that night—left me to die!”

“Darcy, do you think that if I did not trust Professor Snape with my own life, that I would trust him with yours?” Dumbledore replies, not unkindly. “You are safe with Professor Snape.”

“But those things that he said—”

“If I am not mistaken, Professor Snape is not the only one who has said unkind things, Darcy. There have been a few times where you have lost your temper with him, as well.”

“But it’s true? He’s a Death Eater?”

“I trust Severus Snape, and we will speak no more of it right now.” Dumbledore’s tone seems to put an end to it. Darcy knows it’s hopeless to keep pushing. “I’ve noticed a change in you lately. I am afraid you’re growing restless.”

 _Can he read my mind?_ Darcy avoids eye contact, staring at the ground in front of her, holding her arms around herself. “I’ve just been under a lot of stress. I’m sorry, Professor, I’ll try to be better.”

“I am sorry about the students who have been cruel. It shames me as their Headmaster, and I hope you will forgive them.” Dumbledore holds his hands behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet. “You have always been a kind girl, Darcy. It makes me proud.”

Darcy smiles shyly, trying to hide it from him. Despite the words not sounding quite as genuine as she would have liked, the sentiment still pleases her. “Remus says my mother was one of the kindest people he’s ever known,” she muses, unsure why she’s telling Dumbledore this. “He says I’m very like her in that respect.”

“You are as much your mother as Harry is your father,” Dumbledore chuckles. “Remus is very right.”

This time, Darcy’s smile comes more naturally. To know that she’s so like her mother is a happy compliment Darcy feels she should be proud of. But she wonders what other things she shares with her mother— _anyone can be kind_ , she thinks. “Professor Dumbledore,” she starts, her smile falling. Dumbledore watches her inquisitively, waiting for her to finish with raised eyebrows. “Do you think Ludo Bagman is a malicious man?”

“Malicious? No.” Dumbledore shakes his head. “Foolish and easily manipulated? Yes. Our friend, Mr. Bagman, is fond of you, there is no denying it, but I do not think he means you any ill will.” There’s a moment of silence between them and Dumbledore smiles at Darcy. She lifts her eyes to meet his own again, feeling violated by the intensity of his gaze. “By the way, I don’t believe I ever got the chance to tell you how beautiful you looked at the Yule Ball.”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably, blushing a deep red. “Thank you, sir.”

“When I saw you walk into the Great Hall with Mr. Bagman, I could hardly believe you were the same girl I looked upon nearly eight years ago, with the Sorting Hat atop your head.” It makes Darcy chuckle softly. “You have grown into a fine young woman.”

“There’s one more thing about Mr. Bagman, sir,” Darcy says. “He said something to me today that struck me as odd.”

Dumbledore gestures for her to continue. Hesitantly, Darcy recalls the last words Ludo had spoken to her before Rita had so rudely interrupted them. She wonders if there will be a picture of she and Ludo in tomorrow’s paper, claiming something awful, no doubt. The idea doesn’t shake her as badly as she thought it would—after all, the idea that she and Ludo are truly getting cozy is ridiculous. However, Dumbledore’s lack of an answer makes her wary, and when he puts a hand on Darcy’s shoulder and squeezes, she becomes worried whatever he’s going to say will not be good.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it, that people hate Remus so?” she asks, her voice hardly more than a whisper. She almost starts crying then, but she wills the tears not to fall. “I didn’t know, Professor Dumbledore—I’m sorry. I’m sorry for betraying your trust, and I’m sorry—all this time, he’s been telling me that he’ll ruin me, but it’s _me_ who’s ruined _him_.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Well—yes, sir. Look what they’ve written about him,” she frowns. “All of the awful things they’ve said, all because of me. If I had just—if I hadn’t been so _stupid_ , then they would have just left him alone. They wouldn’t have gone after him the way they have. I just want him to—I want things to be okay for him, and I’m afraid that he’ll never have that with me.”

“I’m sure he would argue the same thing,” Dumbledore sighs, patting her cheek much gentler than Rita had done. “You are a good girl, and Rita Skeeter sees that as a weakness. But there is nothing wrong with that—there is nothing wrong with being kind and innocent and sweet. Now, go join your friends, and if Hagrid has anything to say about you, you can send him to me.” Dumbledore winks at her, his blue eyes sparkling in the bright light of the full moon.

Darcy nods, smiling weakly, and watches Dumbledore walk slowly up the sloping lawn, whistling to himself. She’s left with a sense of emptiness, unsure as to whether or not her conversation with Dumbledore has made her feel any better. He didn’t really answer any questions about Snape, skirted around Darcy’s fears that she’s ruined Lupin. But, she thinks, when has Dumbledore ever been one to soothe her worries?

She looks up into the dark sky, eyeing the moon, slightly yellow tonight. It’s beautiful, and Darcy admires it for a moment before remembering that Lupin’s holed up in the Shrieking Shack, hurting and alone in a place that is full of reminders of what he is and what he’s done. The moon doesn’t seem so beautiful then.

 _Six more months,_ she tells herself, opening the door to Hagrid’s hut once more. Inhaling deeply, Darcy smiles at her friends before taking a seat between Harry and Hermione. _Six more months, two more tasks, a thousand more classes. Six more months, two more tasks, a thousand more classes._

 _And then what?_ she asks herself.

But Darcy pushes the thought to the back of her mind. When summer does finally come, she’ll figure it out then.


	43. Chapter 43

Darcy stokes the fire before cleaning up all of her school things. Her room has become a complete mess, reminiscent of Harry’s bedroom at Privet Drive, and its only been a few hours. The coffee table is littered with half-graded homework pieces and essays, more than she usually is responsible for. The counters are covered with old newspapers—one of them opened to the photograph and short article featuring herself and Ludo Bagman that had just been published this morning. In truth, the article hadn’t been at all up to Rita’s usual standards. It’s a short thing, more honest than usual, and the photograph-Ludo holds photograph-Darcy behind him as she glowers at the camera. When Snape had shown it to her, she _laughed_ , and the best part was, she hadn’t received a single letter regarding it.

Truthfully, things don’t seem to bother her as much since she’d been fucked. Sunday morning, he’d slipped into bed beside her, his face buried in her chest with her fingers running through his hair, and after they’d slept for a few hours together, Lupin had made her legs shake so badly she could hardly walk, and afterwards he had held her and peppered her body in sweet, soft kisses. Each kiss had driven another of her worries away, until she was so overwhelmed with a sense of calm that it was all she could do not to cry. _I love you_ , he’d whispered, smiling at her from under the blankets, pulled up to keep the chill away.

They’d laughed together, soft and genuine laughter, touched each other all over like curious fifteen-year-olds, kissed each other’s faces until every inch of skin had been kissed. He’d sang to her—badly, of course, his voice hardly there and off-key, and Darcy had shushed him with a kiss, laughing against his lips until his arms wrapped around her again.

“Professor Lupin,” she’d called him, wrapped up in the sheet, her bare shoulders cold from the chilly draft. The name had earned her a smile over his shoulder as he dressed. Darcy had given him a toothy smile, her cheeks flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “Come warm me. It’s so cold without you beside me.”

They’d shared secrets in low whispers, and Darcy told him about her yellow dream house with colorful flowers outside in the garden, just like Aunt Petunia’s garden. He listened with a small smile, smoothing her hair back, and though Darcy was sure he was going to protest, sure that he was going to apologize for not being enough and sulk like he always does when Darcy tells him what she wants in life, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips, and promised her everything she wanted and more. She hadn’t even cared it was likely an empty promise—all she cared about was that he’d left kisses down her stomach, his thumbs digging almost painfully into her hips to keep her from squirming. It had been something out of a dream—one of _her_ dreams.

She’s even been softer towards Snape, who had been surprisingly polite and quiet around her the past week. He doesn’t once throw their conversation back into her face, allows Darcy to start doing more for their classes, and though she hasn’t seen him do anything about it in front of her, Darcy is sure he has something to do with students no longer mocking her during classes. During Harry’s first class back after the weekend, Hermione had been caught whispering tips to Neville. Snape’s mouth had been open, preparing to snap at her, when he’d caught Darcy’s fierce stare and backed down reluctantly, with a snarl and much muttering under his breath.

Even Hagrid has agreed to at least meet her eyes again. When Harry, Hermione, and Ron had left, Darcy had stayed behind. She allowed Hagrid to say what he wanted to say—which had been a blubbering, half-coherent sentiment about the same things she’s been hearing since people had found out: _He’s twice yer age, one o’ yer parents’ best friends_! Hagrid may or may not have shouted ‘betrayal!’ once or twice, but afterwards—stinking of drink and smiling for the first time in hours—Hagrid had let her go back to the castle.

Darcy drifts off to sleep that night feeling incredibly lonely, her hand outstretched as if to touch the person beside her—but there is no one beside her, and the other half of the bed she doesn’t sleep on it still nearly untouched. She wishes Lupin were here, able to fall asleep beside her every night like she’d thought he would be. To even have Gemma beside her would be sweet, despite Gemma’s insistence on no touching (though once or twice when Gemma and Darcy had shared a bed in the previous months, they’d woken up tangled together and sweating, and Gemma hadn’t said a word about it). Or even to share a bed with Emily again would lift her spirits. Darcy remembers sharing a bed with Emily since first year—it had been a comfort to fall asleep holding hands with someone.

Her dreams are mixed up and confusing, but something cuts through them while the night is still young. Darcy sits straight up, rubbing her eyes and fumbling underneath her pillow for her wand. It’s screaming—anguished screaming so high-pitched that the screech echoes in Darcy’s head. It’s close, she thinks, but far enough away that she has to be actively silent to hear it. Darcy stumbles around her bedroom in the dark, pulling on the first clothes she picks up off the floor, forcing her feet into some slippers as she hops out into the corridor, the screaming magnified.

With her wand out and her heart racing, Darcy leaps down the first staircase three steps at a time, nearly falling victim to one of the disappearing steps. The screeching grows louder and louder, a familiar shriek that makes Darcy hesitate as she creeps closer to it. And then it stops abruptly. This makes Darcy stop, as well, looking around. Figuring that she’s already out of bed, she turns the corner quickly and walks quickly down the long corridor. She’s beginning down the next staircase when she hears someone call, “Darcy!” and she nearly falls down the stairs.

Snape is standing at the base of the staircase, accompanied by Filch and Mrs. Norris, and she makes her way down towards them. Halfway down, as she steps over the trick step she’d gotten caught in only a few weeks ago, Darcy swears something silky and soft brushes against her bare leg, almost as if a ghost has reached out to catch her attention. Goosebumps rise up and down her legs and she suddenly wishes she’d worn pants instead of shorts and a different shirt other than the one of Lupin’s she’s put. She holds her breath and that’s when she hears it—“ _the map_!” It’s quieter than a whisper, but Darcy hears it all the same and tries to look around as casually as possible.

_There it is_. With both Snape and Filch focused on the egg and herself, neither of them seem to have spotted the Maurader’s Map. However, Darcy knows if she reaches for it, they’ll stop her, and Snape will know exactly what it is and how it came to be there. To grab the map is to get Harry into trouble. She can’t even wipe it from here without drawing attention to it, so she walks right by it, leaving it in shadow.

“Where’ve you been, Darcy?” Snape asks sharply as she reaches the bottom, trying to keep his eyes away from the map. He looks her up and down once, scrunching his nose.

“I heard noises—” Darcy looks to Filch. He’s wearing his usual foul and sour look, and cradled in his arms like a baby is a golden egg. “Where did you get that egg? That’s a champion’s egg.”

“Found it,” Filch answers with a horrible smile. “Peeves stole it, and now I’m going to get him thrown out for good—”

“Give it here, Mr. Filch,” Darcy says loudly, holding out her left hand. “It doesn’t belong to you.”

“Nor does it belong to you,” Snape frowns. He glances around suspiciously. “Is this your brother’s egg, Darcy? Where is he lurking?”

“It might be Harry’s egg, or it could be Cedric’s,” Darcy retorts, curling her fingers impatiently for the egg, but Filch doesn’t seem eager to hand it over. “Like Mr. Filch said, Peeves stole it. I can give it back tomorrow. Give it to me, Mr. Filch.”

“No,” Filch hisses, his cat circling their legs. “I need to take this to Professor Dumbledore—it’s not your egg anyway. Professor Snape’s just said so.”

Snape scoffs impatiently, moving a few steps closer to Darcy so his face is dangerously close to hers. Filch watches on, but Snape shuffles so his back is to the caretaker. “Were you in my office?” he whispers, and his breath is hot on her face.

Darcy gives him a blank look. “No,” she answers softly. “Isn’t it obvious I’ve just rolled out of bed?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the sudden clunking noise growing closer makes him break off. Snape looks over his shoulder, standing up straight at the sight of Mad-Eye Moody limping up beside Filch. His hand jumps to the exposed nape of her neck, her hair tied up on the top of her head. Snape squeezes gently, bringing his hand to rest finally on her right shoulder. The sight of Mad-Eye Moody in a nightshirt gives Darcy a weird feeling, and she moves closer to Snape.

“Potter, you’re here too?” Moody asks gruffly, and Darcy nods. His magical blue eye fixes upon her, and then begins to roll around in his socket, making her nauseous. But when his eye lands on something just past Darcy, her heart sinks— _he can see Harry_. “Surely you didn’t get out of bed just to skulk around the corridors with these two?”

Maybe coming from another teacher, Darcy would laugh. But nothing about Mad-Eye is funny, she thinks, and she looks up at Snape, his fingers digging deep into her shoulder. Snape looks down at her for a moment, as if trying to communicate with her silently, but Filch interrupts and they both look up.

“There were noises,” he explains, holding up the golden egg. “Peeves’s work—throwing things around and making mischief—and then Professor Snape said someone had broken into his off—”

“Shut up!” Snape hisses.

Moody steps up to Snape and Darcy, and she hates herself for it, but she shrinks back closer to Snape. With his hand still upon her shoulder, it gives her some small comfort. Professor Moody hardly pays her any attention, however. “Is this true?” he rasps. “Someone broke into your office?”

Snape clears his throat. “It is unimportant.”

“I’d say it’s very important, wouldn’t you, Potter?” Moody’s regular eye is looking into Snape’s face, but his blue one flicks to Darcy and back again to Snape in the matter of a few seconds. “Who would want to break into your office? What do you think they were after, Snape? Potions ingredients or something more—sinister?”

When Darcy sees Snape flush, she makes up her mind.

“It was me,” Darcy lies quickly, capturing the attention of all three visible men. She takes a step forward to stand tall at Snape’s side. He lowers his hand from her shoulder. Glancing up at Snape, unsure of why she’s lying for him, she continues. “I couldn’t sleep and I—I realized I was missing some ingredients, so I thought—I thought Professor Snape wouldn’t mind if I borrowed some of his. I suppose I should have been quieter about it. I’m sorry, Professor Snape.”

“There you have it,” Snape sneers, a vein throbbing in his temple.

Moody laughs heartily. “Some say that my eye can see right through a lie,” he says, raising what part of his eyebrow that he has left. “What are you hiding, Potter? Better yet—what are _you_ hiding, Snape?”

“You know that I’m hiding nothing, Moody,” Snape growls. “Go back to your room, Darcy.”

“I don’t want to go back to my room,” Darcy argues, earning her a deadly look from Snape. “I want to stay here. Professor Moody, it was me in Professor Snape’s office, I swear it—”

This makes Moody laugh again, and she shoots him a sharp glare. “You’re a kind girl, aren’t you, Potter? I heard about what he did last June. I heard what happened to Professor Lupin. Snape outed him, didn’t he?” he asks again.

Darcy keeps her mouth shut, unsure of what to say.

“You trust Professor Snape enough to lie for him?”

Darcy looks Moody hard in the face. When she answers, her jaw is clenched. “Yes.”

“Of course you do,” he replies quietly, one side of his scarred mouth twitching. “If you’re anything like your mother, then you must be a very trusting girl. Professor Dumbledore is too—he’s willing to give second chances to those that, to me, don’t deserve them. Do you want to know what I think, Potter?”

Shifting uncomfortably on her feet, she frowns. “What?”

Moody moves closer to her. “I think there are some spots that never come off.”

Snape moves so quickly that Darcy jumps when his arm brushes against hers. His right hand clasps his left forearm automatically, and he grinds his teeth when Darcy looks at him with wide eyes. Snape realizes his mistake far too late, his cold fingers coming down hard on the back of her neck again. “With me, Darcy—”

“Leave her here, Snape,” Moody interrupts, making Snape’s fingers give her another involuntary squeeze. “I want a word with Potter. You’ll see her tomorrow.”

Privately, Darcy would much rather let Snape lead her away than stay with Moody and Filch, but she knows the map is still waiting to be picked up and Harry is still hiding somewhere with the Invisibility Cloak. Snape looks beyond angry, his face blotchy with color, his nostrils flared. As he turns to leave, alone, Professor Moody stops him.

“You dropped something, Snape,” he says, and Darcy watches on with horror, her heart pounding, as Snape’s eyes follow Moody’s outstretched finger. The Marauder’s Map is clearly visible now, the clouds having shifted outside so the moonlight falls onto the parchment. As Snape lunges for the open map, Darcy takes a long step to match him, and when she stretches out her arm, Snape swats at her. She swats him back, muttering under her breath, and as they argue, the map soars between them and into Moody’s hand. “My mistake… this is mine… must have dropped it earlier…”

Darcy’s breath catches, and Snape frowns at her. “ _Potter_ ,” he says, grabbing the front of her shirt again and giving her a slight shake. Darcy protests, clutching at his wrist. “I knew your brother was involved—where is he? He must be under his Invisibility Cloak—”

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, grabbing onto his left arm. Snape recoils, letting go of her and looking to his left, where Darcy had felt Harry touch her leg as she’d walked down the stairs. “Why do you just assume that it’s Harry? You know it could be Cedric—”

“Do you take me for a fool? I know that map belongs to your brother. I saw it with my own eyes last year, when Lupin decided to cover—”

“What map?” Darcy asks him sweetly, smiling. “Professor Moody’s just said the parchment is his, not Harry’s, nor Remus’s.”

“You are an insolent girl,” Snape mutters, his nose inches from her own.

Darcy doesn’t falter. Snape does not frighten her anymore. “I’m a kind and trusting girl, and I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor Snape.”

“But this is sweet,” Moody chuckles, forcing the both of them to remember they aren’t alone. “Arguing like a married couple. Go back to bed, Snape, and let the girl alone. Filch, give me that egg.”

Snape grumbles and stalks off without so much more as a word. There’s much protesting as Moody takes the egg from Filch, and the caretaker and his cat leave them. There’s the slamming of a door and when the footsteps recede, Darcy stretches her arms out blindly until she feels the smoothness of the Invisibility Cloak. She pulls it off and throws it aside, grabbing Harry underneath the arms and giving a tug. He groans, rubbing his thighs and sighing heavily.

“Thanks,” he says.

“What is this—thing?” Moody asks, and Darcy turns around to see him holding up the Marauder’s Map, looking at it with a narrowed eye. As he unfolds it, Darcy wishes he’d get his grubby hands off it—the map wasn’t created for someone like him to use.

“A map of Hogwarts,” Harry answers. Darcy picks up the Invisibility Cloak before Moody can get his hands on that too, and she clutches Harry’s arm tightly, watching the Auror’s look of amazement.

“This is some map—really,” he chuckles, and Darcy swells with pride, smiling to herself. She makes a mental note to relay the compliment to both Lupin and Sirius next time she sees them. “Potter, you didn’t happen to see who was in Snape’s office, did you?” His blue eye snaps to Darcy. “And you don’t have to lie anymore, Miss Potter. I know it wasn’t you.”

“Er—” Harry looks sideways at Darcy. “Mr. Crouch.”

Moody’s demeanor suddenly changes, as does Darcy’s. She holds Harry’s arm tighter. “Are you sure, Harry?” Darcy whispers. “I mean—Mr. Crouch is supposed to be ill, isn’t he? That’s what Mr. Bagman told me at the Yule Ball.”

“I’m sure it was him, but—” Harry looks anxiously at his sister, then at Moody. “Professor, what would Mr. Crouch be looking for in Snape’s office?”

Moody smiles grimly, looking to Darcy and taking a few steps forward. “You know about Bartemius Crouch, don’t you, girl?” She nods slowly, and Moody continues. “They say I’m obsessed with catching Dark wizards… but compared to Barty Crouch… I’m nothing…”

“Well…” Harry begins again, making Darcy nervous. “Do you think that Mr. Crouch… maybe he thinks there’s something going on?”

Moody frowns. “Like what?”

“Oh!” Harry clears his throat and looks to Darcy again, clearly not having been prepared to explain himself. “Well, Darcy’s been telling me some things…”

“Go on, Miss Potter,” Moody insists. She eyes the Marauder’s Map still held tight in his fist. Why hadn’t she just taken it when she had the chance? “What is it you’ve been telling your brother? What has you worried?” He doesn’t sound accusing, but he also doesn’t sound genuinely curious. It’s a command he barks at her, and Darcy blushes.

“There was the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup,” she answers quickly, wondering if she dare tell Moody more than that. Exchanging a glance with Harry, she decides to plunge ahead recklessly. “And with Bertha Jorkins and Harry’s name coming out of the Goblet of…”

Moody leans in. “Yes?”

Darcy feels her heart start to race again. It’s so obvious—why hadn’t she thought of it before? She opens her mouth to answer, but thinks better of it, changing her mind too late. “Nothing,” she smiles weakly. “It’s nothing.”

“I hope you’ve been keeping a close eye on our friend, Snape.”

“Of course, sir,” she says hastily, lost in thought.

Moody looks at her warily before holding the map up in front of him. “Potter, about this map—”

“What?” Harry asks.

“Can I borrow it?”

“Oh—I—I guess, sir.”

Nodding, Moody looks back down at the map, gives Harry his egg back, and mutters, “Off to bed with you now. Both of you, Potters.”

Darcy and Harry make a detour for her room, quiet the whole way, as he follows underneath the Invisibility Cloak. As soon as the door shuts behind him, he tears the cloak off and they attack each other with questions, talking over each other at the same time.

“What were you doing with your egg?”

“Why did you lie for Snape?”

“Did you find out what the next task is?”

“Do you know something about Snape?”

They quiet for a moment, staring at each other, green eyes into green. No questions are answered, and none are asked for a few minutes. The fire has gone out in her fireplace, so Darcy moves to fix it while Harry sits on the couch. “Harry,” she says finally, staring into the fire. “I think Barty Crouch put your name into the Goblet of Fire.” With her mind still racing, she doesn’t know how to explain herself, but she hopes Harry won’t need an explanation.

However, Harry does not come to the same conclusion. “Wh—” Harry pauses, his face incredulous as Darcy stands up and looks over her shoulder. “Barty Crouch? I don’t know… maybe I should write to Sirius.”

Darcy frowns. “He’ll want to hear about this.”

“Why did you lie for Snape?”

“I don’t know,” she hisses. “I panicked. Did you find out about the next task?”

Harry smiles, holding up his egg and admiring it. “Yes,” she announces, triumphant, but his smile fades quickly. “I opened it underwater, just like Cedric said. Merpeople, Darcy. They’re going to—take something or—something that I’ll sorely miss, and I’ll have to get it back in an hour or it’s lost.”

Darcy nods, stroking her chin. Her thoughts are jumbled however—it’s only now that she’s realized how tired she is and with all that’s just happened and all that’s been said, Darcy sighs. “We still have a month until the next task. That’s plenty of time to figure out how to get you to breathe.”

“You do have an idea, don’t you?”

“Give me a few days,” Darcy nods. “And I’ll think of something. I promise. You should get going, though.”

“Oh—I thought—I mean, could I stay here tonight?”

Darcy nearly cries and she can tell it has made Harry uncomfortable. He rolls his eyes as Darcy sets him up on the sofa with a blanket and pillow. She kisses his head before retreating to her own room, slipping into a deep sleep within seconds, despite the fullness of her mind and heart.

* * *

“I’m telling you, it was Barty Crouch.”

“Barty Crouch? You mean the law abiding, Dark wizard catcher—that Barty Crouch?”

“What would the law abiding Barty Crouch be doing snooping in Snape’s office?”

“How do you know it was Barty Crouch in Snape’s office? Did Harry actually see him?”

“No, well—yes—on the map.”

“What map?”

“ _The_ map!” Darcy sighs impatiently, running her hands through her hair. “The Marauder’s Map. But Moody asked to borrow it afterwards, so I don’t know where Crouch went. It’s like he just disappeared.”

“The Marauder’s Map?” Gemma repeats, laughing. “Is that really what they called themselves? They named themselves the Marauders?”

Darcy blinks in surprise, shaking her head. “Yes,” she answers. “But that doesn’t matter—”

Gemma snickers, raising her eyebrows at a seventh year Ravenclaw from across the corridor. “Say what you will about us and our friends, but at least we never named ourselves.”

“Gemma!” Her voice is shrill and annoyed, and her cheeks sting for a moment as the color rises. “Focus, please! I think I know who is trying to hurt Harry and you don’t seem very interested!”

”I am interested! But what if the map was wrong?”

”The map is never wrong.”

”Says who?”

”Someone who helped make the map!”

“Fair enough. All right, what’s your evidence?”

Darcy and Gemma turn the corner, nearly running over a few fifth year Slytherins. They smile at Gemma, and she waves back. Darcy waits until they’re out of earshot before continuing, counting on her fingers as she lists her evidence. “Barty Crouch was at the Quidditch World Cup when the Death Eaters attacked, and sacked his house elf when it was suggested she was the one who summoned the Dark Mark.”

“Says who?”

“Harry, Hermione, and Ron. They were there when it happened, and Winky is working in the kitchens. Apparently she’s in rough shape and won’t say anything about him, though.”

“All right,” Gemma answers, turning another corner and starting up a staircase. It begins to move as they take a few steps and fail to reach the top before it’s too late. They both groan as the stairs take them towards the opposite side of where they’d like to be. “Next?”

“He was here the night Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire, and I’m sure that neither Karkaroff or Madame Maxime or Snape or Ludo Bagman put his name in. And he was the one who insisted that Harry must compete—that’s what Dumbledore said.”

“Could be a coincidence,” Gemma wonders. They begin to pant as they climb the fifth staircase of the evening. “What else?”

“The fact that he’s been sending Percy Weasley to do his job for him, and can’t be bothered to check in—yet he sneaks into Hogwarts at night to rummage through Snape’s stuff?”

“Did Snape tell you exactly what had been stolen?” Gemma asks suddenly as they cross an extra long corridor, ignoring the jeers from some drunken men in a portrait.

“Lacewings flies and fluxweed,” Darcy says. It had been one of the first things she’d asked when she’d seen Snape that morning. “And those can be used together in all kinds of potions, so it’s not like there’s a specific potion we should be on the lookout for. And they aren’t even rare ingredients—he could have gone to Hogsmeade to buy those. But it’s almost like he just disappeared—”

“So what are you going to do?” Finally having reached her portrait, Darcy gives the password, thinking on Gemma’s question, allowing her friend entry. “Have you told anyone this?”

“Harry—well, not this in depth,” Darcy says, grabbing her bag off the sofa and bringing it with her to the back room. Gemma follows. “You think I should talk to Mr. Bagman about it? He might know something.” _Or he’ll know nothing, just like when I asked at the Yule Ball._

“Mr. Bagman,” Gemma teases, glancing at a mirror above Darcy’s dresser, tucking her hair behind her ears. Darcy looks at her reflection as she packs some clothes, the well worn smirk still playing at her lips. “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

Darcy shrugs. “I’ve come to like him.” She grabs her camera off the nightstand and throws it in the bag. “He reminds me of Mr. Weasley.” Darcy freezes, catching her breath, and then she stands up straight and turns to face Gemma. “Mr. Weasley.”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“Gemma, no—” She drops her bag on her bed, rummaging through her drawer for parchment and a quill. “Mr. Weasley—I have to write him! He’ll probably know loads because Percy’s been filling in for Crouch… I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner—and Emily, I bet Emily could do a little more digging…” Darcy unstoppers her tiny bottle of ink and dips the tip of her quill quickly.

“Something about this just doesn’t seem right,” Gemma sighs, turning away from the mirror. “All of those things just seem like coincidences. I can’t believe that Barty Crouch would run with Death Eaters. He hates them. You heard what Lupin said. He sent his own son to Azkaban. He disowned him in front of all of his peers and the court.”

“What if he’s under the Imperius Curse?”

The two of them are quiet for a moment. The idea frightens Darcy, but Gemma doesn’t look surprised at her suggestion. Suddenly, she looks very grave, and very unlike herself. “Darcy,” she whispers. “When you go to Lupin’s tonight, tell him that. I want to know what he says. I’m going to take off for a few days, be at home with my parents. I’ll see if they say anything. Don’t write me about his answer—I don’t want a letter like that to be read by my parents.”

Worry grips Darcy’s heart. “You think it’s possible?”

Gemma takes a few steps closer to Darcy. “Who would be doing it? Why Barty Crouch? And why would he need potions ingredients?”

“What happens if it is true?” Darcy asks breathlessly. “Wait…” All of her excitement disappears in a second. “Professor Moody would have known, right? And Crouch definitely wasn’t Imperiused on Halloween—at least, I don’t think he was… no one seemed to notice if he was, anyway…”

“Something’s missing,” Gemma says, more to herself than to Darcy. “Maybe Moody already thinks something is going on, that’s why he wanted to borrow the map—to catch Crouch.”

Darcy purses her lips. “There’s something off about Moody.”

“Of course there is. He’s a fucking lunatic—but he knows what he’s doing.”

“No, I mean—that’s essentially what everyone says, but,” Darcy shakes her head, “I don’t think I trust going to him with this.”

“What? Remember, Emily said that we could trust him?”

“She said Tonks said we could trust him, and I don’t trust Tonks half as much as I do Emily.”

“Why not?” Gemma chuckles. The change in her face is so abrupt it surprises Darcy. “Because she’s your replacement?”

Darcy frowns. Gemma’s words sting her. “She’s not—she’s not my _replacement_. Emily’s allowed to have other friends.”

“Listen, just—see what Lupin says about it and we’ll talk when we both see each other again. Keep an ear out for anything strange.”

“Always.” Darcy picks her bag back up, hardly able to think straight after attempting to piece everything together. “Are you walking down with me?”

“I have a few more hours left.” Gemma stretches, yawning dramatically. “Hey—can I sleep in your bed? I’ve still got forty-five minutes to kill.”

“Yeah. See you Tuesday.”

It’s only as Darcy’s halfway to Hogsmeade does she realize she’s completely forgotten to tell Gemma about the second task.


	44. Chapter 44

Lupin looks at her for a long time.

His eyes rove over her face—eyes that catch the light of the flames and seem more gold than brown—searching for _something_ , his gaze so intense it makes her blush fiercely. While he continues to think (Darcy swears she can hear the gears turning mechanically in his head, the racing of thoughts back and forth as he tries to make sense of all she’s told him), Darcy admires the slight pout on his lips, the small crease between his eyebrows that appears whenever he’s deep in thought or giving her a look of disbelief or incredulity. His hair seems darker lately, still streaked with gray, but sorely missing the sunlight. It falls into his eyes, in desperate need of a cut, but part of Darcy just wants to run her fingers through it again and again and again and again. Lupin scratches at his beard with his long fingers—deft fingers that have the power to undo her, she knows—before resting his hands on her hips to keep her in his lap.

At the same time, Darcy notices his general air of weariness seems to be coming back. It’s clear he isn’t eating as well as he was at Hogwarts (though out of sheer laziness and a refusal to make his own food or a lack of funds, Darcy isn’t sure), nor does he appear to be sleeping well. Shadows reminiscent of bruises appear under his eyes, and his cheeks don’t seem as full, oddly pale even in the orange glow of the crackling fire. Darcy drapes her arms over his shoulders, rolling her hips against him.

Lupin’s fingertips dip into her waist and he narrows his eyes, shifting underneath her. “Hold on, kitten, don’t distract me. I’m thinking.”

He continues to look at her for much longer than Darcy has anticipated. She presses her lips softly to his own, hoping it will spark a conversation—a conversation that will ease her fears. Surely she’s just being ridiculous—surely she’s just trying to make it all make sense. Surely Barty Crouch isn’t Imperiused and surely he didn’t put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire. Lupin will, of course, tell her everything is all right, that she needn’t fear—that he’ll take care of things for her and she won’t have to worry about it again. Darcy continues to kiss along his jaw and down his neck, holding his face in her hands as Lupin tilts his head back to open his throat to her.

“Maybe you should talk to Ludo Bagman,” he murmurs, closing his eyes, letting Darcy’s lips cover his flesh in sweet kisses. “Ask him if he knows what Crouch has been up to, where he’s been. Look at me, Darcy.”

She does as he asks, lifting her head to look him in the eyes once more. Lupin smiles at her, his hands releasing her hips to brush some hair behind her ears. His smile makes Darcy’s heart flutter in her chest, so violently that she’s sure Lupin must hear it. “What?” she asks.

“I just wanted to look at you,” Lupin replies. “Now, while you try and wring some more information from Ludo, what are you thinking about the second task?”

“Bubblehead Charm,” Darcy answers quickly, sitting up straight in Lupin’s lap so he has to look up at her. “That’s what I would do, and I would teach Harry like we did the Summoning Charm, but it would need to be perfect or near perfect for an hour at least and that’s advanced magic for a fourteen-year-old.”

“It’s possible he could do it,” Lupin says. “Your brother did learn how to cast a true Patronus charm at thirteen.”

“But it took him weeks—months. He doesn’t have months,” Darcy sighs, frowning. “And I’m not as good of a teacher are you were.”

Lupin laughs. Darcy flushes, looking away sheepishly. “You’re a wonderful teacher, my love,” he whispers, kissing her. “It still amazes me that you’re able to sit through Potions classes all day and enjoy it.”

Her cheeks burning red, Darcy sighs contently. “I love you.” She brushes his hair out of his face. “Tell me everything is going to be all right. Tell me that I’ll make it through the rest of the year.”

“You’ll be all right,” he says, kissing her cheek, her temples, her forehead, her mouth. “You’ll make it through the rest of the year.”

“Tell me that once this is all over, we’ll run away together.”

“Once this is all over, we’ll run away together.”

Darcy smiles weakly, touching his cheek. Lupin looks up at her, waiting patiently for another request. She lowers her voice, and kisses him softly. “Tell me you love me.”

Lupin smiles, burying his face in her neck and leaving wet kisses all over. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

* * *

Unfortunately, no one seems to be of much help when Darcy returns to Hogwarts. What had seemed like the only plausible answer to Darcy now leaves her full of doubts and feeling unsure. Harry and Ron dismiss her theory in favor of a different one, suggesting that Snape was the one who put Harry’s name in—that it’s Snape who wants Harry injured or dead—that Snape’s a Dark wizard who doesn’t deserve a second chance (though neither of them can tell Darcy what they think Snape has done to warrant a second chance). Harry is keen on parroting Mad-Eye Moody’s sentiment, but Darcy’s just glad that Hermione has taken her side regarding it. When Darcy had first explained all of her evidence, Hermione had been convinced by it, her suspicions rousing. Several times during the weeks that follow, Darcy lays out her reasoning as to why Snape wasn’t the one to put Harry’s name forth, but after a while, Darcy comes to the conclusion that they’re just searching for a reason to hate and blame Snape for _something_ , and it’s far too much work to attempt to change two fourteen-year-old minds.

Hermione, however, is much more concerned about the upcoming task to worry too much about Barty Crouch or anyone else. Darcy had thrown Hermione her idea about a Bubblehead Charm, but Hermione also echoes the thought Darcy had—the charm would need to be absolutely perfect, and a few weeks isn’t enough time to ensure that. If Harry were to fail to produce a good, strong charm, then he’ll either fail the task or die, which sets Darcy’s teeth on edge. Darcy has to agree with Hermione one hundred percent after they reach that determination. However, it’s much more difficult searching for solutions without knowing exactly what to research. One night, Darcy thinks of Transfiguring Harry into a fish, but Hermione laughs in her face while both Harry and Ron are at dinner, whispering, “And risk Harry never being able to turn himself back? That takes years to learn and it takes a very skilled wizard to do it.”

When Darcy relays to Gemma what Lupin had said regarding Barty Crouch (which hadn’t been much at all), Gemma agrees wholeheartedly that a simple conversation with Ludo Bagman is a good start. Unable to take off work for the weekend, Gemma promises she’ll see if her parents know anything later in the week when things slow down. She ends up taking five days off and works at St Mungo’s during the weekend, so the seven days Gemma is missing, Darcy finds incredibly lonely. With Harry constantly snapping at her, succumbing to the pressures of the second task, and Carla always surrounded by a flock of her new friends, Darcy skulks around the corridors by herself most of the time or hides in Snape’s office while she grades papers. Especially with the hurt still fresh from Gemma’s words about Tonks being her replacement, Darcy wishes more than anything her bed isn’t empty when she returns to it each night. Though she’s proud of herself for one thing—she’s able to keep tears from spilling, able to keep her face dry and a smile on her face during classes and meals. But she knows the dam is like to break soon.

Mr. Weasley is the first to send back the school owl Darcy had sent to deliver his letter (Max being out with a letter to Sirius), and she hardly lets anyone read it for fear of being chastised. _I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but you need to tread carefully_ , he’d written, and Darcy had no trouble at all hearing his stern voice in her head as she read it. _One false accusation about a senior Ministry official will ruin you_ , he’d went on to say. _You would also do well to keep your nose out of Ministry business—you’ve always been curious, and maybe now it’s time to put an end to it. Focus on the second task and Harry, and I’ll take care of finding out about Barty Crouch_. Darcy throws the letter into the fire after reading it, feeling ashamed, as if Mr. Weasley had just stood in front of her and said all of those things to her face.

_That’s all I’m good for anyway_ , she tells herself, the voice in her head malicious and hurtful. _Taking care of Harry. That’s all I’ll ever be good for._

Emily sends her letter back next, along with a box of chocolates, hoping to ease Darcy’s mind. She almost throws them away, but when she sees that there’s firewhiskey in the middle of each square, Darcy opens the box greedily and eats about half of them in one sitting, leaving her feeling sick to her stomach and ready to vomit. _No one has seen Barty Crouch for weeks, come to think of it. Percy won’t tell us anything, but I may have a trick or two up my sleeve_ , she had said. _Keep this quiet until I let you know what I’ve found. I’m sure if there’s something serious going on, Moody is already on top of things. I’ll be there for the second task and I miss you._

Snape, thankfully, doesn’t bring up the Marauder’s Map or the events of that strange night. Instead, he puts even more work on her, which Darcy privately enjoys. It keeps her busy, and a change of scenery is truly what she needs. She spends some evenings in Snape’s office, brewing example potions for classes while Snape grades papers silently at his desk. Every so often he’ll answer one of her questions, sometimes he’ll check her cauldron and give her tips that differentiate from what all of her books say. She’s hesitant about following Snape’s instructions, but it turns out he really does know what he’s talking about. Despite his kindness towards her, Darcy doesn’t confide in him what she thinks about Barty Crouch, imagining that he wouldn’t find it very amusing that she’s been dwelling on it.

And, as Darcy thought, she comes to find that Ludo Bagman knows next to nothing about Barty Crouch. They have dinner down in Hogsmeade one night, where he recalls his favorite moments in Quidditch history, making her smile and laugh. She buys them drink after drink until they’re both flushed, huddled together at the bar and giggling and Ludo walks Darcy back up to the castle afterwards, stumbling in the dark. Ludo promises to meet up with her again soon and leaves her with a sloppy kiss to her forehead. Darcy feels almost bad for him as he makes his way back down the sloping lawn towards Hogsmeade. His company has lifted her spirits, despite her mixed feelings towards Ludo.

Without a reply from Sirius and Gemma not having found out anything about anyone being Imperiused or doing the actual casting, Darcy begins to lose hope. More doubts seep into her brain, and the more she and Gemma talk about Barty Crouch, the more far-fetched it seems. With the task approaching so quickly, Darcy knows that her theory really banks on Crouch _not_ showing up to judge. If Percy Weasley covers again, Darcy thinks it’s safe to assume something is going on. And if Barty Crouch comes back—maybe she can drop the whole thing.

All the while, the days begin to slip away faster and faster and faster. Darcy finds herself standing at the edge of the lake one night, wondering what kind of spell a fourteen-year-old kid could master in just two weeks time now? There must be some kind of potion, she thinks, but she’d searched through all of her books and even some extra ones she’d pulled off Snape’s shelves. None had helped her. She floated the idea of performing the Bubblehead Charm on Harry herself, to which Lupin had retorted, “That’s against the rules. I told you to just teach him, _Professor_ , and you didn’t.”

Darcy had flushed as Gemma chuckled. “Since when have you been a man to follow the rules? Especially as a Professor?”

Lupin had given them both a mischievous and prideful smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

When Gemma and Darcy stepped outside a little while later to smoke a cigarette, Gemma had joked, “You could fuck Ludo Bagman, see where that gets you.”

“Why don’t _you_ fuck Ludo Bagman?” Darcy snapped. “Besides, he doesn’t know anything. He’s just a fool.”

“I’d fuck him if I knew there was information to be had,” Gemma had shrugged, taking a long drag of her cigarette with her lips curled upwards. “But it would truly be a waste of time and energy to fuck him and get nothing in return. Though, it would be fun to be able to say I fucked ex-Quidditch superstar, Ludovic Bagman…”

“So you would just volunteer me?” The idea, far from angering Darcy, had made her laugh for reasons unknown to even herself. “Don’t tell Remus.”

Gemma had raised her eyebrows and laughed along, as well, a barking laughter that rang through the dark and snowy streets of Hogsmeade.

The evening before the full moon and a little more than a week away from the second task, feverish and slick with sweat all over, Lupin lays with his head in Darcy’s lap as she reads, combing her fingers through his wet hair to ease him into sleep as wintry rain lashes at the windows. It’s not even an interesting book, but one Snape had given to her to search for clues as to how Harry would survive underwater for at least an hour. The spine is crumbling, but Darcy’s put as much Spello-tape as she can on the cover and spine to keep it from falling apart. She knows Snape would never actually hit her, but she fears that if she were to return with the book broken in half, she’d have to suffer through harsh insults and Snape’s anger is something she’d rather avoid.

Lupin takes her hand in his, kissing her wrist and lacing their fingers together. Darcy glances at him, smiling, before returning to her book. “Let’s go back home,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Just for tonight and I’ll make sure you’re back bright and early for your first class tomorrow.”

Darcy laughs quietly, squeezing his hand. “You shouldn’t Apparate anywhere. You might splinch yourself.”

Lupin hums in response, closing his eyes. “Stay here tonight, at least.”

She sighs, looking down upon his face and putting her book on the arm of the sofa. “Okay.” Tears build in her eyes and Darcy touches them, feeling them begin to spill. The feeling of being wanted makes her heart full. Darcy tries to force herself to stop before weeks worth of tears fall. “Remus, can I ask you something?”

His eyes still shut, he kisses her fingers. “Anything.”

Hesitating, Darcy chews the inside of her cheek for a moment. _What happens when he no longer wants me to stay?_ “Would you ever marry me?”

Lupin’s eyes snap open and he sits up quicker than Darcy could have believed, clearing his throat wildly. He stammers, struggling to find an appropriate response, and seeing him so flustered makes her feel humiliated. Darcy sees his cheeks turn red and she turns away from him, picking her book back up, trying to hide her tear stained cheeks. Lupin drags a hand through his hair, making to respond.

“Nevermind,” she says quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked—”

“No—no, no, no, Darcy, I—” Lupin rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks still pink. “I mean—” He gives a nervous chuckle. “ _Now_?”

“Not now!” Darcy answers, feeling her entire face flush a deep crimson. “Not now, but you know—eventually—sometime—”

“Are you—?”

“N—no, I’m not—”

“Right,” he murmurs, averting her eyes. They sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the flickering flames and the hammering of rain against the window panes—Darcy staring blankly at a page in her book, watching Lupin shift awkwardly beside her out of the corner of her eye. “I’m going to be completely honest with you right now, er—no one’s ever asked me that before, nor have I ever—er—”

“I was only curious, I’m sorry.” Darcy runs a hand down her face. “I shouldn’t have blindsided you like that. I’ve just been thinking and—I have a lot going on right now and… you know…”

“Right, well, you don’t have to be sorry,” Lupin says, inhaling deeply. “Listen, you think the next time you want to talk about this, you could—let me know beforehand, or at least—hint at it? Just so I don’t, you know, make a fool of myself in front of you?”

“Yeah.” Darcy glances at him for a split second, trying to seem casual. “Yeah, yeah—sorry. I don’t think you made a fool of yourself—I just—you know, forever is a long time and it’s—it’s a long time to spend with _me_ and I only wanted to know if—I mean, if you ever wanted to or thought about—”

“Darcy—” He looks at her for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Kitten, listen to me…” Lupin takes the book out of Darcy’s hands and sets it aside. She fixes him with an anxious stare as he takes her hands in his. “I wouldn’t be here if I…” He quickly looks around the room, grasping for words. “I know that you want to get married and have children and live in your flowery, yellow house, Darcy—don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“I was only curious,” she confesses. “After everything that’s been said and written about you because of me, I just thought that—maybe, after seeing what being with me entails, that you—”

“You thought that I wouldn’t want to be with you because people have been saying the same things they’ve been saying about werewolves for as long as I can remember?” Lupin asks, laughing in disbelief, but it’s a bitter laughter now. “Don’t think I don’t know what kinds of letters you’ve been receiving.”

Still reeling from the awful embarrassment, Darcy pulls her hands away and gets slowly to her feet. “Maybe I should go.”

Lupin stands, laughing, giving Darcy an easy smile. Darcy has to look away from him, the sight of his bare chest too distracting. Her cheeks still burn, and breathing becomes more of a chore. “You aren’t going to leave me now just because of that, are you?” He takes a few steps closer, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek, pushing the hair out of her face. “I need your gentle hands to get me through the night.”

Darcy hesitates, touching the hand upon her cheek and lowering it. “I don’t want to be alone,” she says. “I’m afraid that you’re going to wake up one day and you won’t love me anymore—that you’ll realize I’m not worth it.”

His brow furrows for a moment, and then Lupin’s face relaxes. He reaches out to hold her arms, smiling weakly down at her. “Come sit down, sweetheart. Come sit with me, please.”

She does as he asks, following him back to the sofa. The fire is warm on her face, a mask to keep her tears at bay. The tapping on the windows due to the freezing rain makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, I’m sorry.”

“How many times must I tell you, Darcy?” he asks with a small smile. “You don’t have to apologize to me.”

Nodding, Darcy looks away. She doesn’t know why the conversation has made her so anxious, and one part of her wants to run away, far away. “Sorry.”

This makes Lupin laughs, albeit a soft and forced laughter. “I’m flattered that you would even—consider that,” he tells her, leaning in and putting a hand on her shoulder. It reminds her of just the previous year, enjoying the comforts of Lupin’s warm and cozy and private room, sharing secrets and confessions, making excuses to spend time with each other. “It means more to me than you know.”

“Maybe we could just forget I said anything.”

Lupin considers her, looking rather amused. “All right.” While she doesn’t look him in the face, she can feel his eyes on her. “Hey—I love you.”

Darcy blushes. “I know.”

Snape isn’t very amused when she stumbles into her first class fifteen minutes late the next morning to much giggling from the students, her hair disheveled and her neck marked with love bites.

* * *

Harry grows so unbearable the following week, that by the evening before the second task, Darcy hasn’t even talked to her brother for a few days, even when she’d seen him in Potions class. He’d snapped at her one night after she’d confronted him about the task.

“I’ve already got it handled!” he’d shouted in her face, his cheeks bright red. “So you can stop worrying about it!”

But her anxiety peaks when neither Hermione nor Ron can give her an answer as to what Harry is doing for the second task. She lays in bed for a long time that night, wondering if Harry is doing the same thing. Emily had promised to meet her in Hogsmeade the next morning, and Darcy’s heart leaps at the thought of seeing Lupin again—as it always does when she knows she’ll be seeing him soon.

Darcy finally falls asleep around three o’clock in the morning, after taking a few shots of some cheap bourbon Gemma had brought her one day, and after her eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. But she doesn’t sleep long—around five in the morning, Darcy wakes to a loud _CRACK_ and crashing coming from behind her door. Despite her exhaustion, Darcy grabs her wand from under her pillow and runs out into the living area of her apartment, lighting some candles and coming face to face with a small house-elf with large, bright eyes.

“Dobby,” Darcy gasps, clutching her chest and lowering her wand. She glances around, seeing what had made the racket—Dobby has accidentally knocked over the bottle of bourbon and it lays shattered on the floor. “I’m sorry—you scared me. What are you doing here?”

Dobby wrings his hands together nervously. “Dobby needs Darcy Potter’s help,” he says meekly. “Dobby knew that Harry Potter had not found the right book yet, but Dobby wants to help!”

“What do you mean Harry hasn’t found the right book?” Darcy asks, checking her watch, her heart sinking. “Dobby, the second task starts in nearly four hours—”

Sensing her fright and overwhelming sense of dread, Dobby takes her fingers with a very gentle grip, tugging her towards the sofa and urging her to sit. She sits at the edge of the cushion, watching Dobby pace back and forth in the dim candlelight. “Dobby overheard Professors McGonagall and Moody talking about the second task—Professor Moody said something about gillyweed—”

“Gillyweed?” Darcy repeats, her heart pounding. _How could I have been so stupid?_ All this time, she and her brother and her friends had been searching mainly for a spell to master, a spell that would provide Harry with air—or a Potion that would allow Harry oxygen. How could they have been so blind? Why didn’t she think of it earlier? “But Dobby, Professor Snape has gillyweed in his private stores! In his office!”

Dobby nods eagerly, smiling.

“I can’t get in, though,” she continues, getting to her feet. “Professor Snape has a spell on his door—I don’t know what it is and I don’t have a key—”

“Dobby can get in, but Dobby needs Darcy to show him where the gillyweed is.”

Darcy doesn’t hesitate. She slips on her slippers and she and Dobby make their way to Professor Snape’s office. She pulls her wand out to unlock it, but Dobby snaps his fingers and the door creaks open. The office is dark, and by the light of Darcy’s wand, she pulls Dobby along by the hand to the back of the room, where the door to Snape’s private store is kept shut and locked nearly constantly. “Get us in, Dobby.”

Dobby snaps again and, just as before, the door swings slowly open. She moans as she holds her wand up to the topmost shelf, thankful for her long legs. “Professor Snape _really_ won’t like this…” Darcy puts her hand down on the shelf, feeling the slimy wetness of the gillyweed. “He doesn’t have too many… I’ll replace it, I guess…”

Darcy holds out the gillyweed in her palm, letting Dobby look down upon it. “It does not look very good, Darcy…”

“No, I don’t think it would be tasty at all,” she sighs, giving Dobby an exasperated smile. “Are you sure about this? I know that gillyweed is typically stewed, but I don’t know much about the effects raw… I mean, will it last at least an hour?”

Dobby nods, taking the gillyweed from her hand and slipping it into his shorts pocket. “I’ll give the gillyweed to Harry, so Darcy Potter is not getting into trouble.”

“Thanks, Dobby.”

“Dobby must go,” he whispers, looking up at her again, wiping his wet hand on his sweater. “Darcy Potter will tell Dobby about the second task, yes?”

She smiles, kneeling before the elf. “Of course I will. Thank you.” Awkwardly, Darcy wraps her arms around Dobby and is pleased when his tiny arms do the same and his cheek rests upon her shoulder. 


	45. Chapter 45

“Where are Hermione and Ron?”

“They probably went to find seats when it started getting late, love.”

“Yeah,” Gemma agrees, craning her long neck to look all around her. Her Gryffindor earrings are dangling from her ears again, and Darcy feels a surge of affection for Gemma. “How could you have possibly overslept today, of all days? I thought for sure you’d be up all night freaking out.”

“No—no, something isn’t right,” Darcy retorts, looking at Lupin, bleary-eyed. She’d scanned the many seats several times and hadn’t seen any sign of Hermione or Ron among the many students. “Hermione would have waited for me. She would have made Ron wait for us.”

Perhaps it’s just the fact they’re all situated on the edge of the water this morning, or perhaps it’s the fact that Darcy is in dire need of a long sleep, but everyone seems louder today, their shouts and laughter echoing in her head. She wishes Emily could be with them too, holding Darcy’s hand to pass on some of her courage and strength, but Emily had taken her seat with the judges in order to take notes and interview the judges. And when Gemma excuses herself, slipping away to be with Madam Pomfrey, Darcy clutches Lupin’s hand, feeling quite lonely. Carla had decided to sit with her Hufflepuff friends for the second task, and Darcy can see her now—beaming and beautiful, the morning sun reflecting off the lake making her dark skin shine. Several girls giggle around her, and one of them whispers in Carla’s ear before they throw their heads back and laugh.

“Something’s wrong,” Darcy says again, shaking her head and glancing at her watch. “Hermione and Ron should be here—Hermione should—”

“Darcy! Darcy, my darling!”

Darcy turns around, surprised to see red-faced Ludo Bagman running towards her. She releases Lupin’s hand as Ludo puts his hands on her shoulders, squeezing hard. “Mr. Bagman!” Darcy gasps, forcing herself to smile at him. She feels the warmth of Lupin’s palm on the small of her back, even through her thick cloak. “What’s wrong? Have you seen Harry’s friends? I can’t find them anywhere—”

“Where is your brother, Darcy?”

“I—” Darcy blinks in surprise as Ludo’s hands fall to his sides. She exchanges an anxious look with Lupin. “Harry isn’t here? But—but I—”

Ludo looks at his watch, tapping his foot impatiently. “We’re starting in two minutes…” He looks curiously from Darcy to Lupin and back again. Moving closer to Darcy, Ludo smiles, but it doesn’t extend all the way to his eyes. Darcy sees that he’s sweating slightly, and knowing that Harry still hasn’t arrived makes her sweat too. “Would you be a good girl and go find him?”

“Er—of course.”

“Good girl, good girl— _Harry_!” Ludo brushes past the both of them. Darcy turns quickly on her heel, seeing Harry sprinting towards them, panting and looking to be in pain. “Come, Harry—the task is about to start—! Darcy, follow me, please! Come on, child, come—all your friends are with us—yes, bring him with you—!”

While Darcy is delighted with this idea, Lupin seems uncomfortable. “Oh—no, no, Ludo, thank you, but I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“Remus—”

“Darcy…” Lupin says in a low voice, stopping Darcy before she’s able to follow Ludo. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be there, around all of those people—”

“Mr. Bagman will be there—it’ll be all right,” Darcy protests breathlessly, frowning up at him. “And Gemma, and Professor Dumbledore. They won’t let anyone say anything, and nor will I.”

“Darcy—”

“Please,” she whispers, standing on her toes and placing a hand on his cheek, kissing him. His cheeks turn pink, making Darcy blush in turn. “Please come.”

He opens and closes his mouth, sighing heavily. “All right.”

“Do you see them?” she asks, glancing around the packed stands once more. Her heart stops when she sees bright red hair, but it’s only Fred and George, and Ron is nowhere in sight. Nowhere either does Darcy see Hermione’s bushy hair, and neither does Lupin. “Well… I’m sure they’ll be here… let’s go.”

Darcy takes Lupin’s hand again and he follows reluctantly, led across the grounds to the judges table, sitting surrounded by a crude structure with two levels. Professor Dumbledore looks delighted to see not only Harry, but Darcy and Lupin, as well. Madame Maxime has her hands on Fleur’s shoulder, whispering in her ear as Fleur looks into the murky water; Professor Karkaroff bares his teeth in an ugly, yellow smile as Ludo ushers Darcy and Lupin past the judges table. Cedric smiles politely at her and even greets Lupin with a firm handshake. Cameras flash, taking photographs of the champions and of Darcy, the photographers attempting to get a few last minute shots in before the task begins. Darcy’s heart is thundering inside her chest, and the panic that had gripped her heart before the first task come back in full force, making it hard for her to breathe. She wants to ask Harry about the gillyweed, but she’s being shuffled further away from her brother, and Lupin pulls her still further.

“And where have you been? The task is about to start, Harry!”

She freezes, turning at the half-familiar voice. Lupin grabs her upper arm, meaning to pull her away, but she jerks away from him. Sitting at the judges’ table, chastising Harry and arguing with a smiling Ludo Bagman is Percy Weasley. His back is to her, but there’s no mistaking the bright red curls, or the slightly nasally voice—the voice that had been the bane of her existence in fifth year when he’d first been named a prefect. “What are _you_ doing here?” she asks him, perhaps a bit too harshly.

Percy turns, and everyone’s eyes fall upon Darcy. He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m filling in for Mr. Crouch at his insistence. He has found himself indisposed,” Percy answers, puffing out his chest. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, reminding Darcy forcibly of Mr. Weasley. Behind him, Ludo begins to space out the champions at the water’s edge, talking hurriedly and smiling to each champion in turn. “What are _you_ doing here? You should be in the stands with everyone else, unless you have official business.”

“Mr. Bagman invited us here,” Darcy retorts sharply. “Where’s Mr. Crouch? Why couldn’t he come himself?”

Percy’s ears turn red, much the way Ron’s do. Darcy has to admit, it’s more endearing to see it happen to Ron than Percy. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Darcy—”

Lupin pulls her away before she can reply, and Percy’s voice is drowned out by Ludo Bagman’s booming one, magically magnified in order to echo across the grounds as he introduces the four champions. Darcy and Lupin make their way up a narrow, crooked, wooden staircase leading to a platform, and she’s delighted to see Gemma, Emily, and Madam Pomfrey watching the champions from over a shimmering railing. As soon as Darcy clambers up onto the platform, Madam Pomfrey rushes her.

“Oh, Darcy—” The matron places her hands on both of Darcy’s cheeks. Lupin stumbles, stepping on the back of Darcy’s feet, and she cries out and tries to squirm away. “When I didn’t see you in the stands, I thought they’d gone through with it—”

“Gone through with what?” Darcy asks again, narrowing her eyes as Madam Pomfrey lowers her hands from Darcy’s face.

Emily writes furiously onto a small notebook, Gemma on her left. Lupin stands at the railing beside Gemma as she speaks, looking down at Harry. “Can I tell her, Madam Pomfrey?”

“Go on, Smythe.”

Gemma chuckles darkly, turning to face Darcy. “A few of the judges were in a right mind to use you instead of Ron for the task.”

“What do you mean _use me_? Where’s Ron? And where’s Hermione?”

Gemma frowns. “You don’t know? Didn’t Harry tell you what the clue was?”

“Yeah, but—”

“What do you think they’re trying to find down there?” Gemma says, turning back towards the lake. “Something the champions will sorely miss—in other words—”

“You’re telling me Ron and Hermione are at the bottom of the lake?” Darcy screeches, and everyone looks at her. Even Emily stops writing for a moment, her eyes fixing on Darcy’s, thin eyebrows raised.

Ludo’s voice cuts across them. “Now that our champions are ready to start the second task—they have one hour to recover what has been taken from them!” His voice rings in Darcy’s ears from down below. Ludo glances over his shoulder up at Darcy, who sticks her head over the railing to look at Harry one last time. “One my whistle—one, two— _three_!” Ludo blows hard into the whistle and adrenaline surges through Darcy’s veins.

“How could Dumbledore let this happen?” Darcy growls, as Harry kicks off his shoes and socks. He holds his hand out as he wades into the water and Darcy can see it—the green, tentacle-like plant. She sighs in relief as he puts it in his mouth, but she white-knuckles the railing. “I mean—what if Harry hadn’t figured out a way to get down there?”

“Oh my god, Darcy,” Emily snorts. “You actually think Dumbledore would let them all drown?”

“I think it’s sweet that Hermione’s what Viktor Krum would sorely miss,” Gemma muses, smiling to herself. “Wonder who they would have taken if I was champion?”

Darcy scrunches her nose. “Likely me, so I’m quite glad you’re not champion.”

A crease appears on Gemma’s forehead and her eyes brighten. “That was cocky,” she smirks. “But you’re probably right, so I’ll allow it.”

“Is that gillyweed?” Lupin asks, scrunching his nose. They watch for a moment as Harry pauses in the lake, submerged to his waist. He almost looks as if he’s having a fit—Harry claps his hands to his neck, as if gasping for air—and Gemma cheers as Harry dives into the water, the last of the champions to disappear. “Whose idea was it to give him gillyweed?”

Darcy grabs onto his arm. “Why? Is it dangerous?”

“No—in fact, I think it’s a great idea.”

“Oh, well…” Darcy hesitates, blushing, and turns to Madam Pomfrey. She’s looking expectantly at Darcy, as are all of her friends. “It was Dobby’s idea, actually.”

“Who’s Dobby?” Madam Pomfrey asks, looking bewildered.

“He’s a house-elf,” Darcy explains, rubbing her temples. “He tried to stop Harry and me from coming—well, that’s not important—anyway, Dobby woke me early this morning because he needed to find some gillyweed and I knew that Professor Snape had some and—”

“You broke into Severus’s private stores with a house-elf?” Lupin finishes, laughing heartily. Gemma joins him, and even Emily gives a chuckle, shaking her head. Madam Pomfrey’s lips are pursed, her eyebrows knitted together. “You’re really walking on thin ice now, Darcy.”

“It was for a good cause, and I told Dobby I’d replace it!” Darcy replies, her voice a few octaves higher than normal. “Anyway—I’m quite glad they didn’t use me, otherwise how would Harry have gotten the gillyweed?”

“They told me about the task beforehand, you see… wanted me to be prepared… when Professor Dumbledore asked Smythe to send for you, I told them absolutely not,” Madam Pomfrey says firmly, making Darcy smile. “I wasn’t the only one against the idea, either. Take one Potter away from the other and the results won’t be pretty, I said. What has she done to deserve to be a part of your games, I said.” Her words are icy cold, a tone Darcy has never heard from Madam Pomfrey before.

Darcy and Emily meet each other’s eyes for a split second, and Darcy looks away sheepishly. Gemma elbows Lupin aside to make room for Darcy to stand between them. They look out at the lake in silence for a moment, but all around them, other students are still laughing and cheering and singing for their champions as time slowly creeps by. The surface of the lake is eerily still, and Darcy tries to imagine what’s happening in its depths. _He never learned how to swim_ , she thinks sadly. _I should have taught him how to swim when we were children._

“Ludo Bagman was of a mind with Madam Pomfrey,” Gemma tells her. She points down below at him; Darcy smiles at Ludo, his head tilted back to look up at her. Professor Dumbledore whispers something in his ear and Ludo turns away. “He was outraged, but only after Madam Pomfrey said something.”

“That’s…” Darcy watches Ludo for a little while long. “That was kind of him.” She scans the judges table again and hears the clunking of Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps as she descends to the lower level. “Percy’s here.”

“I noticed that too. I’m sure Mad-Eye’s already noticed, as well,” Emily says, lowering her notepad to look thoughtfully at Darcy. “I thought for sure he’d be here for the second task, especially after missing the Yule Ball. Word around the Minister is that he’s been struck ill—some say he’s finally cracked after everything that happened with his son, others say he’s been bitten by a werewolf, and one person told me that Ludo Bagman had him killed.”

“Clearly he isn’t dead,” Gemma argues. “He must be corresponding with Percy. Someone’s giving him instructions.”

“Someone,” Darcy says quietly. “If Percy’s only getting letters, it could be anyone. Emily, I thought you said you had a trick up your sleeve where Percy was concerned?”

“It turns out Percy still has that girlfriend of his,” Emily mutters, and Gemma laughs. “And anyway, once I started _really_ turning on the charm, his face turned bright red and he ran away stuttering.”

“Your trick was to seduce him?” Gemma grins.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Emily frowns, suddenly defensive. She returns to her notepad, scribbling quickly, her cheeks pink. “It seemed like just the sort of thing you would have done at the time.”

“It is exactly the sort of thing I would have done,” Gemma jokes. “Though I would have succeeded.”

As Emily and Gemma continue to bicker, Darcy looks up at Lupin, wrapping her fingers around his bicep. “Dumbledore wouldn’t really let anyone drown, would he?” she whispers to him.

Lupin smiles at her, draping his arm around her shoulders and holding her close. “No.” He laughs quietly, more to himself than to anything. “I’m sure Dumbledore would never let anyone drown. Unless, I suppose, they really deserved it.”

“Hermione and Ron don’t deserve to be drowned,” Darcy snaps.

“No, I don’t think so either. They’ll be fine, as will Harry. Is this not almost the exact same conversation we had before the first task?”

“We’ll probably be having the same one before the third task too,” she sighs. “I can’t stand just waiting around. What do you think they’re doing under there?”

Lupin checks his watch and it catches the sun, blinding Darcy. She smiles all the same, however. It’s the watch she had bought him for Christmas. “An hour isn’t so long… it’ll be over before you know it. Just be patient.”

Darcy does a lot of listening over the course of the remaining time. Emily talks for fifteen minutes about the demands of the _Daily Prophet_ and the complete and utter chaos the office is, but privately, Darcy thinks Emily enjoys the chaos and probably thrives in it. She then shifts to the Ministry of Magic for another ten minutes, talking about Tonks and Auror training and the rigorous tests they were putting her through. Before Emily can finish her long-winded spiel, Ludo’s voice cuts across her.

“Great Scott—our first champion’s surfaced well before the hour is up, but—oh no, I don’t see that she’s retrieved anything…”

From the middle of the lake, Darcy sees the silvery hair of Fleur, without her prize. The crowd cheers for her despite her failure. She swims slowly and weakly towards the shore, and Gemma excuses herself and slips downstairs, helping Madam Pomfrey into a narrow boat to retrieve the champion. When they return with Fleur in tow, they bring her up to the second floor and drape a heavy blanket around her shoulders.

Darcy, Lupin, and Emily watch on awkwardly as Madam Pomfrey urges Fleur to drink a potion that seems to warm her, judging by the steam coming out of her ears afterwards. “What happened, Fleur?” Gemma asks gently, wringing Fleur’s hair out.

“Ze grindylows attacked me… I couldn’t—” Fleur’s eyes are wide with fear and she looks around at everyone, her chest heaving. Darcy can’t help but realize how beautiful Fleur is up close, much like the same way Gemma is—it’s a haughty beauty, the beauty of someone well cared for. She shies closer to Lupin, running a hand through her hair and feeling like her limbs are suddenly much too long. “My sister—Gabrielle—she is still down zere!”

“It’s all right,” Madam Pomfrey says, touching Fleur’s face to clean the blood off her face. “Gabrielle will be fine.”

“But who will save ‘er if not me?”

Darcy wonders why no one decides to tell her Gabrielle is in no real danger. But she worries for Harry. There are cuts all over Fleur’s face that she refuses care for, pushing away Madam Pomfrey and jabbering angrily away in French.

After Gemma helps calm Fleur down, even more time has passed, and Fleur finally looks at Darcy. Darcy blushes, turning quickly back towards the lake. “You are ‘arry’s sister,” she says, her voice hoarse. Slowly, Darcy turns around again to see Fleur looking her up and down before settling her gaze on Lupin, a look of dawning comprehension. Her eyes snap back to Darcy. “I ‘ave ‘eard so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Darcy jokes feebly. She laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck.

Fleur doesn’t answer, which is answer enough for Darcy.

Darcy, Lupin, and Gemma continue to watch the still lake quietly, not daring to say too much with Fleur and Madam Pomfrey with them again. Emily speaks to Fleur, taking notes on what had happened in the lake, sharing what little French she knows, and the two girls seem to get on rather well, giggling in low voices. Darcy ignores them, looking at Lupin, on her left, and Gemma, on her right. As the seconds tick by, Darcy paces restlessly, checking her watch every minute only to complain of how slow time is moving. Still, students cheer and laugh, agitating her.

When an hour passes finally, Darcy’s stomach stirs. No one has come back yet except Fleur, and worry starts to overwhelm her again. And then—“Here—someone’s back.” Lupin puts a hand on the small of her back, pointing towards the lake.

“It’s Cedric with Cho,” Gemma says quickly, moving back down the stairs with Madam Pomfrey. Fleur runs down the stairs after them, holding the blanket around her shoulders still, and Emily follows with her quill tucked behind her ear. Darcy and Lupin remain, watching the water and listening to the Hogwarts students roar their approval.

It isn’t until fifteen minutes later does someone else break the surface, his head still oddly distorted from his respectable attempt at a Transfiguration spell, according to Ludo Bagman. Viktor Krum throws his head back, gasping for the cold air, holding tight to Hermione. As Gemma and Madam Pomfrey set out for the two of them in the boat, Darcy grabs Lupin’s hand and drags him to the lower platform amidst stomping students and screams from girls.

“Hermione—”

“Darcy—”

Hermione, still sopping wet and shivering violently, abruptly leaves Viktor’s side, throwing herself at Darcy, and the two of them wrap each other in a tight hug. Darcy touches Hermione’s face, so relieved to see her smiling, and accepts a blanket thrown at her by Gemma. She wraps it around Hermione’s shoulders.

“Harry figured it out, then?” Hermione asks, her teeth chattering. “Hi, Professor Lupin.”

“Nice to see you in good spirits, Hermione.”

Darcy and Hermione laugh softly. “I’ll let him tell you,” Darcy tells her breathlessly, pulling the blanket tighter around her. Hermione’s smile is glued to her face, and Darcy doesn’t want to ruin her elation just yet by admitting she’d stolen it for Dobby just hours prior to the task. Warning him about the dragons would have been one thing, but stealing something to help Harry along is definitely cheating. “Are you all right? Gemma’s got some kind of potion—”

“I’m here—open up, my love,” Gemma announces over the clamor of the returned champions, hostages, and the judges.

Hermione does as Gemma requests, and Darcy smiles. “Say her name three times in the dark and she appears behind you,” Darcy whispers, making Hermione laugh.

With Gemma tending to the others and Emily taking short interviews with each champion, Hermione stays with Darcy and Lupin. Darcy had thought Harry would be back sooner rather than later, but the minutes tick by quicker than Darcy likes. She holds onto Lupin’s hand tight as she can, scanning the lake for any disturbance…

And there it is, well past the allotted hour, but surfacing nonetheless—and with him are two hostages, one on either side of him, one with bright red hair and one with silvery hair. As Madam Pomfrey and Gemma make for the boat once more, Darcy can hear Gemma clearly—“Your _damn_ brother—” but the rest is drowned out by the cheering coming from the stands all around them. Hermione is the first to join them, screaming in delight, cheering along for Harry. Darcy watches as Gemma helps Gabrielle into the boat first before the boys.

Darcy’s heart soars with joy. She pulls Lupin’s face to hers, kissing his cheek over and over again as he laughs. Gemma gets the boat back to the shallows, helping Gabrielle out. Ludo Bagman takes Darcy’s hand in his, kissing her on both cheeks. Darcy flushes when Lupin clears his throat, pulling her to him. Gemma beckons Harry and Ron to follow, and they do, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Darcy runs towards him and wraps her arms around Harry, nearly lifting him from the ground.

“Gabrielle! _Gabrielle_! Is she alive?”

Fleur rips Darcy and Harry apart, making them both frown. “Gabrielle is fine—look.” He nods towards the young girl being tended to by Madam Pomfrey. Fleur’s eyes are big and round and shiny with tears, and she claps a hand to her mouth, running off to her sister and holding her tight to her bosom.

As Darcy embraces a very tense and exhausted Harry, she hears Viktor Krum speaking from behind her, pulling a bug out of Hermione’s hair. Hermione thanks him, but everyone’s attention is focused on Harry as Gemma forces Darcy a few steps back. Gemma wraps him in a blanket, pours potion down his throat to warm him, cleans the cuts on his body and wipes down the place on his neck where gills had been. His fair skin is covered with a bright red rash now where the gillyweed has affected him, but Harry doesn’t seem very bothered. Darcy kisses Ron on the head despite his protests and the reddening of his ears, but calls out for Darcy when Percy approaches and tries to steal him away, looking pale and nervous.

Emily approaches Harry next, holding him close, just as Darcy had. She kisses his forehead and congratulates him, laughing incredulously when he tells her about his decision to save both Ron and Gabrielle. “You and your sister are one and the same, do you know that?” Emily teases, pinching Harry’s cheek and laughing when he pulls away from her.

Lupin shakes Harry’s hand and pats him on the shoulder, a wide smile on his face.

Harry listens closely when Ludo Bagman announces the points, beginning with Fleur, who gets more points than Darcy had thought she would. She wraps her arms around Lupin’s middle, resting her head against his chest. The steady thumping of his heart brings her back to reality, and Ludo’s voice is drowned by students when he announces Cedric’s score of forty-five points out of fifty. Darcy and her friends clap politely, and Hermione gives Viktor a small smile when he’s awarded forty points.

“And… in a surprising turn of events… upon speaking with the Merchieftaness, we have learned that Harry was the first champion to reach the hostages.” Ludo turns, beaming at Harry, and Harry gives Darcy a very sheepish look. “The reason for his delay was due to his determination for all hostages to be returned safely… most of us judges believe this shows moral fiber and deserves full marks, however… Harry Potter’s score is—forty points!”

Darcy stays by Lupin’s side as Harry and his friends cheer and hug and talk excitedly about the outcome. “He’s tied with Cedric now,” Darcy says to Lupin, sighing heavily, but smiling. “Harry’s tied for _first_ with one task to go.” She watches Harry for a moment before scoffing. “He’s an idiot, isn’t he? Waiting for others to save their hostages.”

Lupin chuckles, resting his chin atop her head. “Sounds like the sort of reckless, selfless thing you’d do.”

Darcy laughs quietly. “Harry is a much better person than I am, that’s for sure.”

Her smile widens still when Harry steps up to her, Ron and Hermione at his side. “Gillyweed, Darcy,” Harry grins mischievously, looking rather pleased with himself. “I told you I had it handled, and you didn’t believe me.”

“An excellent decision,” Lupin says, and when Darcy looks up at him, he’s wearing a very toothy grin. Kissing her forehead in sight of her brother and friends, he asks, “Did you hear that, Darcy? Gillyweed?”

She looks back at Harry with an incredulous smile for a long time, finally laughing and breaking away from Lupin, holding Harry’s face in her hands. Darcy places a kiss atop his head. “Gillyweed,” she laughs.


	46. Chapter 46

The days following the second task are almost something out of a dream. With the third task not until the end of June, and with students acting much warmer towards her (especially Fleur Delacour, who smiles at her during meals and talks to her other Beauxbatons friends about Darcy), Darcy feels an enormous weight is lifted from her shoulders—much the way it had been after the first task. Harry had defied the odds and not only proved himself more than capable of performing the tasks and keeping up with students a few years his senior, but Harry had proved he could do it _better_. He had outflown a dragon during the first task, and had saved not only Ron, but Gabrielle during the second task, as well.

Snape confronts her at breakfast the day following the task. She thinks if it had been Professor McGonagall, she would have been dragged down to the dungeons by her ear, but Snape contents himself by dragging Darcy by the wrist away from her food. As soon as he forces her into the office and opens the door to his private stores, Darcy puts her hands on her hips.

“You stole the gillyweed,” he snaps. “You broke into my office—how? You _cheated_.”

But Darcy procures a handful of gillyweed, wrapped nearly with a bow (a special request she had made while buying it in Hogsmeade). Snape stares at it for a moment, then his black eyes flick back to her face. Her heart skips a beat before continuing its unusually steady drumbeat. “Please don’t tell anyone, Professor.”

“If I did, you would be forced to leave,” he sneers. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Darcy frowns, looking down at her feet. The dread begins to finally rise, and Darcy tastes bile in her throat. “No, sir, I wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Professor Snape.”

Snape snatches the gillyweed from her hand quickly, as if expecting her to pull back at the last second. He puts it on the top shelf, exactly the place where Darcy had found the gillyweed originally. “If you ever do something like this again, you will be very, _very_ sorry, Darcy, do you understand me?” His voice cracks like a whip, his tone icy.

“Yes, sir.”

He looks her over, considering her. Snape’s gaze feels almost intrusive and Darcy wraps her arms around herself protectively. “Go have breakfast and come straight back,” he murmurs, standing up straight. “I want you here before the other students come for class.”

She opens her mouth to speak and finds her throat is very dry. “I’m not really hungry. I thought I’d just wait here for class to start.”

“Very well.”

As Snape brushes past her, his shoulder bumping hers with what Darcy considers unnecessary force, she calls out for him, and Snape pauses in the threshold, one foot in his classroom and one in his store closet. “You wouldn’t really have left me in the Shrieking Shack, would you?”

He’s quiet for a moment. The question comes as a clear surprise, and Darcy watches Snape grind his teeth as he thinks of an answer. “I didn’t,” he finally says. “I carried you out—carried up to the castle and into my classroom, where I closed the wounds that have given you those grotesque scars.”

Darcy’s hand jumps to her shoulder. Grotesque is a harsh word, she thinks. They aren’t pretty, but Darcy doesn’t think them grotesque. Even Lupin has never called them anything so insulting. “And I have thanked you,” she retorts. The words come out angry and bitter, Snape igniting her rage. “What else would you have of me?”

“Your respect,” he snarls, moving into the closet again and closing the door. “You have always toed the line, always kept talking when you should have stopped, and you continue to test my limits for the sake of tormenting me—”

“I don’t derive pleasure from tormenting you, believe me,” Darcy trills, her face growing red. “If I’m so awful, then why haven’t you had me kicked out yet? And I don’t think you’ve been very respectful towards me, either—”

“Darcy,” he cuts across her, “now would be one of those times where you should _shut your mouth_.”

“You’ve mocked me and belittled me and insulted me,” Darcy continues, ignoring him completely. She already knows she should stop talking, but Snape is so seemingly willing to take her anger that it spills out of her. “You treat me like a child—”

“Because you _are_ a child!” Snape’s nostrils flare, his skin bloodless. He steps nearer to her, his face inches from hers. “And so long as you are in _my_ classroom, working under _me_ , you will do as you’re told, and I will tell you right now—there will be no more stealing, no more disrespect, no more questions, and you will shut up when I tell you enough is enough. _Do you understand_?”

Darcy clenches her jaw, flinching. Snape waits expectantly for her answer, raising his eyebrows, but his hands stay at his sides, not once making a move to hit her. She is quiet for a long time, but Snape doesn’t look as if he’s going to leave without hearing her say something. Darcy lowers her eyes. His words affect her far more than she would have ever expected, and it’s everything she can do to keep herself from crying. “Yes, Professor Snape.”

Snape exhales deeply. “Don’t cry, girl. You’re going to help me teach the first class today.”

Her eyes go to his face. He’s never let her help teach a class before. “Yes, Professor.”

Darcy retires to her bed after classes end that day, skipping dinner entirely. She reads by the light of a few candles on her nightstand until she begins to cry, and she doesn’t stop crying until sleep takes her.

Despite Darcy having heard the real story of what had happened the night before the task from Hermione, she entertains Ron by being an involved and eager audience when he tells her of the merpeople that held him back due to his violent threats and the fear of Ron’s strength. He recalls Dumbledore forcing him in the lake while he fought bravely to attempt an escape. Darcy smiles, listening to him each time with wide and fearful eyes as Ron’s ego grows and grows and his chest swells with pride—until Hermione puts a stop to his outrageous stories. When Hermione has confessed one night in Darcy’s apartment that she’d told Darcy everything already, Ron had turned bright red all over and frowned at Darcy.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ron had pouted, clearly upset that Darcy’s reactions hadn’t been as genuine as he’d hoped.

Darcy had laughed, kissing him on the head, and all had been forgiven when she’d allowed Ron a single sip of her own firewhiskey. The drink made Ron cough a lot and made him sweat a little before the fire. “You just— _drink_ that?” Ron had asked, and Darcy snorted, making a mental note to tell Gemma the next time she sees her.

The weekend after the first task, Darcy makes the usual journey down to Hogsmeade in order to Apparate to Lupin’s. Upon arriving at his cottage, Darcy finds a surprise waiting for her. When he opens the door for her to enter, the smell of cooking meat and roasted vegetables nearly overwhelms her, making her lightheaded with hunger despite having eaten a large and hearty lunch a few hours ago. There’s music playing, drowning out the voice of the surly looking anchor on the news that they both enjoy, a fire in the fireplace burning bright, and several candles lit around the room. Darcy hesitates, smiling a small smile, looking around.

“What is this?” she asks, looking him over curiously.

“Dinner,” Lupin answers nervously, smiling and rubbing the back of his neck. “Er—but we can go out if you don’t like it—”

“No,” she interrupts, beaming. “This is fine. Better than what I had planned, in fact.”

Lupin’s brow furrows. “What exactly was it that you had planned?”

“I don’t know.” Darcy shrugs, wandering over to the stove and plucking a piece of broccoli out of a pan, stuffing it in her mouth. “I thought we could just make out on the sofa before I sleep for eighteen hours or something.”

Lupin laughs, pushing her gently out of the way.  
“Kitten, hang onto that thought because I am—definitely interested,” he says, opening the oven and pulling out what smells like lamb. Darcy inches closer, the smell tantalizing. The lamb still sizzles. When she looks up at him again, Darcy can’t help but admire the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, looking very much a young man again. He touches the necklace around her neck gently, his fingertips running up her throat and along her jaw to cup her cheek. “Hungry?”

Darcy nods and his hand falls back to his side. He insists she sit, and she does. Lupin brings the food over to the table and they eat to the crackling music floating from the wireless. The food looks so delicious and perfect (and Darcy suspects he’s used magic, because his cooking skills aren’t _that_ good—not that she’d say it to his face) and he looks so incredibly handsome sitting across from her, that she retrieves her camera from her bag. Darcy takes a picture of him, food laid out before them on the table, and when she shakes it dry, Darcy grins. The cool and easy smile on his face in the photograph makes her heart stop. He slouches in his chair, his hair falling to his eyebrows.

“So, really,” she says, cutting her meat and chancing a look at him. “What’s the occasion? You’re making me nervous.”

Lupin chews slowly, watching her. “It’s just dinner,” he says. “I just thought—maybe you’d like a home cooked meal after a long week.”

“That’s sweet of you.” Darcy looks down at her plate again, pushing around some vegetables. “Is there something you want? You only have to ask, you know. You don’t have to—” She gestures around. “You don’t have to do this.”

He laughs, lowering his fork. “Darcy, I don’t want anything from you,” he tells her. “I enjoy having dinner with you.”

Darcy blushes, looking away sheepishly. “Oh,” she says. “Of course. Thank you—it’s very good.”

“You’ve barely eaten.”

She sighs heavily, stuffing as much food as she can in her mouth and eating quickly. Lupin watches her all the while, an eyebrow cocked. When she clears most of her plate, Darcy leans back in her chair. “It was good, thank you,” she says again. “Can we go make out now?”

Lupin smiles. “Yeah—sure, okay, yeah.”

It isn’t until much later into the night—after hours of kissing and grinding and rubbing and groping and sweating and smiles, eventually leading to Lupin carrying her to bed—that Darcy thinks of something, rolling his fingers with her own. His eyes are closed, the almost full moon casting his chest in moonlight. The light extends to the nightstand, where a photograph lays beside her camera, right where Lupin had left it hours ago. In the darkness, Darcy sees the outline of her body in the photo—he’d taken it while she’d been lying beneath him, naked but for her necklace.

“This month is the sixth month of Gemma’s trial,” Darcy whispers. She moves closer, resting her cheek on his chest. Lupin opens his eyes an inch, looking down at her. “What will you do afterwards?”

“I suppose I’ll have to find a job,” Lupin smiles weakly, closing his eyes again and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “My days of being a lab rat are almost at an end.”

“Have you found anything promising?”

“You know, it’s a funny thing—a lot of people are familiar with me.” He kisses her forehead. “Options are very limited for werewolves, it seems, especially those involved with such famous and beautiful young women.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says. “They would have hated me regardless.”

Darcy frowns, placing a soft kiss to his chest, her lips brushing against the scar tissue of a particularly painful looking scar. “Remus,” she whispers again. “If you need help, I don’t mind—”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you, I’ve told you,” he replies quickly, his tone still gentle and kind. “Not now, not ever. I’ll manage. I’m used to it by now.”

Darcy sits up, letting the blanket fall to her waist. Lupin’s eyes flutter open, and her fingers wrap around his left wrist. She pulls his arm towards her, fingers brushing over the violent scar that had been the first. Darcy brings his forearm to her lips, kissing it just barely. “Have we been careless?” she asks. “Should we have kept more to ourselves?”

“I would not make you a prisoner in my home just because of what people might say about me,” Lupin frowns. “I would not force you to hide away with me.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide,” Darcy counters. “People fear werewolves because they misunderstand them—if they knew you, knew who you really are, they would never—”

“People do not misunderstand werewolves. They fear my kind because they see us for what we are—monsters, a danger to society, ourselves, and others.” He puts a hand on her shoulder, touching her slightly firmer than he usually does. “No matter how good a person I am, I am still a werewolf. I have done this to you—proof of the damage I’m capable of inflicting.”

Darcy pauses, taking in his bitter words. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” she answers in a low voice. “Your hands may have scarred me, but they’ve done so many other things—good things.” She brings his hand up to her face, to cup her cheek. Darcy nuzzles into his palm.

“I am nothing to them—no one. People don’t care if I live or die. They don’t want me near their children, for good reason, or their mothers or their daughters or sons.” Lupin speaks quickly, as if he’s been waiting a long time to get this off his chest. “To some people, I’m just a beast, not even a person. And yet they deny me the opportunity to try and prove to them I could be someone.”

“It’s ignorance—it’s disgusting prejudice. And for what it’s worth, you’re someone to me.” Darcy purses her lips, her forehead creasing. They look at each other for a long time before she continues, not before kissing his palm. “You’re my best friend.”

“I do not deserve you,” he continues, a soft and bitter voice. “Some days I look at you and fear what they say is true—that I’m taking advantage of you. You are so young still, so innocent. You’ve not yet been exposed to the world beyond Hogwarts.”

His words sting, and leave her breathless. “How could you ever think that?”

It seems as if whatever he wants to say is causing him physical pain. Lupin sits up a little, taking his hand away from Darcy. “You are so perfect, and I am—nowhere near good enough for you. I should have known someone like me could not love someone like you.”

Hurt beyond words, Darcy moves on top of him, running her fingers through his hair and kissing every inch of his face. “You _are_ perfect,” she murmurs against him. “Perfect—perfect—perfect—” Each word punctuated by a soft kiss, Lupin closes his eyes, letting her lips touch the exposed skin of his neck and throat, his bare chest littered with scars. While he doesn’t protest to stop her from kissing him, his twisted expression makes Darcy think he doesn’t truly believe what she’s saying.

Darcy holds him to her own chest for a long time afterwards, his cheeks wet and his tears smearing against her skin. She waits until she’s sure he’s fallen asleep against her to start crying, and sleep doesn’t take her until dawn begins to break.

She’s glad that Gemma is back at Hogwarts on Monday, and after a quick celebration for Ron’s fifteenth birthday, Darcy steals down to the hospital wing as Gemma is cleaning up. When Gemma asks how her weekend at Lupin’s was, Darcy bursts into tears. She cries about Lupin’s struggle to find a job, and the enormous amount of pressure that dating her has put on him, how she’s ruined him and was naive enough to believe everything would be fine, and how undeserving she is of someone so kind and loving, and all the while Gemma and Madam Pomfrey watch on, unsure of how to comfort her. Madam Pomfrey holds Darcy to her bosom, and Gemma strokes her hair and holds her hand.

The next week isn’t much better. She’d thought things would get better after the second task, but Darcy feels the crushing weight on her shoulders of the knowledge that she’s made Lupin an outcast—despised and hated for not only his condition, but for loving her. Harry seems to catch on rather quick, swinging by her apartment for dinner a few nights, just to sit and be with her while they eat. It isn’t until Hermione comes by Thursday night that Darcy smiles for what feels like the first time in a week. Hermione brings some chocolates and sweets with her she’d bought her last visit to Hogsmeade, and they sit in front of the fire for a long time eating them before one of them speaks.

“I was stupid,” Darcy rasps, drinking from a cup of wine, “to believe the world would let me have this one thing and not ruin it, like it has ruined everything else for me.”

Hermione swallows loudly, visibly uncomfortable. “Professor Lupin loves you, Darcy.”

Darcy wipes her eyes with her palms. “We were just two lonely people,” she cries softly. “Two lonely people who just wanted to feel— _wanted_ , and damn the consequences.”

Friday brings with it the final thing needed to unhinge Darcy. During the first Potions class of the day, copies of _Witch Weekly_ are being waved in her face, dazing her. She doesn’t read the gossip-filled magazine—Gemma and Emily had always been fond of reading them together and discussing them afterwards, she remembers. But it isn’t until Harry, Hermione, and Ron come into Potions does Darcy find out what exactly has been written in it.

She doesn’t cry during class, even after Pansy Parkinson reads out loud snippets from the article regarding Hermione and Harry and Viktor Krum—a nasty article full of lies and deceit, aimed to smear Hermione and lift Harry, urging him to find a prettier girl, a better girl. And when Pansy notices Darcy’s staring throughout the thing (in between her awestruck looks at Hermione for handling the entire thing far better than Darcy ever could), she begins to read from an article about Darcy, about how the tragedy in her life had driven her into the arms of a werewolf, undeserving of her love and attention.

“That’s my sister you’re talking about!” Harry snarls, and Snape shoots him a dangerous look. Darcy can see the word detention forming on the tip of his tongue, but Snape meets Darcy’s eyes and he calls for quiet from the entire class.

She’s on the verge of tears when class comes to an end, but when Igor Karkaroff bursts through the classroom door and makes his way towards Snape, Darcy hesitates. She shrinks back to Snape’s side, her fingers clutching at the rough fabric of his black robes.

Karkaroff seems to disregard Darcy completely. The class begins to clear up, filing out of the room as the bell rings. “We need to talk,” Karkaroff insists, his eyes fixed solely upon Snape.

“What’s so urgent?” Snape hisses.

“ _This_ ,” Karkaroff answers, and—either forgetting that Darcy is still present and watching, or not caring that she’s still present and watching—he tugs back his left sleeve and reveals his forearm to both she and Snape.

Darcy inhales sharply. It’s something she’s never seen before—a dark tattoo that seems more a scar than anything. It’s raised from his skin the way scars normally are, and it squirms slightly against his skin. The skull is unmistakable, even in the dimness of the classroom, and the serpent protrudes from where its tongue should be—the same sign she’d seen in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup. Darcy’s heart races in her chest and Snape’s hand jumps to the nape of her neck, squeezing as her chest begins to heave. She can’t take her eyes off it, and knowing that Snape has the same brand on his forearm makes her dizzy.

“Put it away!” It is not a request—it’s an order, a command. A few students still linger in the classroom, including Harry, and Darcy’s eyes are wide as saucers. “We’ll talk later.”

When Darcy is left with Snape in the classroom, neither of them speak for a long time. Then, Snape turns to Darcy and asks, “Are you all right?”

His question takes her by surprise, but she nods. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She wraps her arms around herself protectively, wanting nothing more than to run out of the classroom, but something tells her to stay. “I’ve never seen—you know—before.”

“Karkaroff is a damn fool.”

Darcy nods again and smiles weakly at him. Eyeing the copy of _Witch Weekly_ sitting atop his desk (which is not the only copy he’s confiscated in the day), Darcy looks back at Snape. “May I borrow that, sir?”

“Why would you want to borrow it? To read all the sweet things they’ve written about you?”

Without warning, the tears come. Snape stares at her from a few feet away, his nose scrunched. Even with what she’d just seen, with what Karkaroff had so willingly shown her, Darcy’s mind is preoccupied with thoughts of the article—Pansy likely read her the worst of the article, but Darcy is still curious, and it hurts her to imagine all of the things that could have possibly been said. She wants Sirius to be here to comfort her, she wants Mr. Weasley to wrap his arms around her, she would even take Ludo Bagman, to feel his hand upon her cheek as he kisses her head. She really wants her father, to hold her as a father does, to remind her that she is beautiful and loving and deserving of everything. But she has none of those people here, least of all her father. Only Snape—always Snape.

Darcy glances over her shoulder at the closed classroom door, and then back at Snape, who still hasn’t looked away from her. She sniffles and takes a few steps closer to him, looking up at him curiously. Darcy tilts her head to the side, trying to read him, but it has always been impossible to know what Snape is thinking.

Hesitating, trembling slightly, Darcy leans into him. She places her cheek to his chest lightly at first, listening to his heart beating. It almost makes her laugh, as if Snape having a living, beating heart is the most ridiculous thing in the world. Darcy sighs heavily against him, closing her eyes, hooking her arms underneath his shoulders.

Snape makes no move to hold her, not that she had expected him to. But Darcy feels his fingers thread through the end of her hair before it falls again. She cries for a long time, crying against his chest, amazed that he allows her to.

“Have you been kind to Professor Snape?” Dumbledore asks her after dinner that night. Darcy only smiles a small smile and nods, not wanting to reveal what happened in Snape’s classroom and damage his pride.


	47. Chapter 47

“What is it? Where are you taking me? You know I hate surprises.”

Hermione’s soft hand squeezes her right one, pulling her further down the gravelly and muddy path. Darcy can feel Lupin’s hand on the small of her back. Darcy holds her left hand out, completely blind with the blindfold tied around her eyes, and her fingers touch hair, a thick head of hair. Ron is the one who speaks. “Darcy, can you stop touching my hair?”

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Can I take this stupid blindfold off now?”

“Almost,” Hermione promises. “Watch your step, there’s a rock.” She guides Darcy around it, and Darcy lifts her feet dramatically.

“If you hate it, just know the blindfold was Hermione’s idea,” Ron adds, and though Darcy can’t see Hermione’s face, she has a good idea what kind of expression she’s likely given Ron.

“I don’t hate it,” Darcy says quickly, squeezing Hermione’s hand again. “I just hate surprises. How do I know you aren’t bringing me out here to kill me?”

“Oh, Darcy, if we wanted to kill you,” Hermione replies, “we would have done it a long time ago.”

Hermione had blinded her the moment they set foot in Hogsmeade, and they’d waited outside The Three Broomsticks as Harry had retrieved Lupin from inside, only to lead her off the High Street (or so Darcy thinks, as the sound of voices fades behind them), and down a narrower path where rocks crunch under their shoes. She has to admit that it is the perfect day to explore Hogsmeade—the weather is warmer than it has been all March, and Darcy had left her cloak behind at The Three Broomsticks, instead letting the sun wash over her milky skin. The breeze makes goosebumps cover her arms every so often, but it’s a nice spring breeze that is welcome and sorely missed when the air becomes still again.

Darcy takes another step forward, catching the back of Hermione’s shoe and stumbling. Ron catches her, whispering something to Harry, who seems to be a few feet ahead of her. “Are we there?” Darcy asks, looking around as if she’ll be able to see better that way. “Can I please take this thing off now?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers, and Darcy can tell there’s a smile on his face. “Go ahead.”

She feels Lupin’s fingers working at the knot at the back of her head, and then he slips the blindfold off. The sun is blinding after the darkness of the black cloth, and she squints for a moment, looking around at all of her friends. The mountain looms closer than she’s ever seen it, and Darcy recalls coming down this way once before with Emily, but never this far. Cottages are more spread out on the edge of the village, and the grass and wildflowers here are unkempt and tall and waiting to tickle her legs if she were to walk through them.

And standing at the end of the road, at a stile just a little further away, is a great shaggy dog, black and skinny. Darcy’s heart leaps and she falls to her knees as the dog bounds towards them; Harry smiles, greeting the dog, and Darcy falls to her knees. She embraces the dog, crying against his matted fur, allowing Sirius to nuzzle against her face. He barks once and races off, urging them all to follow.

The walk is not as exciting, but Darcy’s heart hammers anyway. To think that, a single day after she’d craved someone’s arms around her and ended up crying against _Snape_ , Sirius would be here, just outside Hogsmeade… It makes her shudder. Had she been so desperate for affection that Snape seemed her only option? Darcy laces her fingers with Lupin’s, pulling him along.

Sirius leads them up a mountain path, more treacherous for those of them with two feet as opposed to four. Darcy and Ron follow Sirius closely, their long legs carrying them ahead of the others. Harry, Hermione, and Lupin bring up the rear, panting with the effort of climbing the slope. They walk for nearly thirty minutes, until they’re all out of breath.

“Keep up!” Darcy calls at them over her shoulder, the adrenaline giving her much more energy than she thought she possessed. A thin sheen of sweat covers her forehead with the sun beating directly down on her. The sun has already burned Ron’s nose and a drop of sweat drips from the tip of it. “It’s not so bad.”

“It’s all your—trips down to—Hogsmeade,” Hermione gasps, and when someone loses their footing, Darcy turns around wildly. Harry catches Hermione before she falls, her toe having caught on a root. “Your legs are—built for this—kind of thing.”

“Slow down,” Harry pleads, giving Hermione a gentle push to keep her moving.

Hermione stops, clutching a stitch in her side, and Harry and Lupin stop with her. “Sirius, please,” Lupin sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Not all of us are making this journey on four legs.”

Sirius barks again, slipping between two rocks. Darcy and Ron wait for the others to catch up. “I’ll go first,” Darcy says, following Sirius. Thin as she is, Darcy still has to turn sideways to fit between the rocks, and blushes furiously when her backside catches on a rock. “Ron, you have to just give me a kick.”

“I’m not going to kick you in the arse,” Ron scoffs, crossing his arms and laughing. “Can’t you just—wiggle?”

“No, I can’t just wiggle—just give me a push—”

Lupin protests loudly, giving Ron a look that makes his ears turn red. “Don’t touch her there.” He steps forward, holding his hands out.

“Don’t!” Darcy hisses at him, horrified at the idea of Sirius seeing Lupin’s hands where they probably shouldn’t be. “Hermione, come here—”

“For goodness’ sake,” Hermione mumbles, stepping up to Darcy and elbowing Lupin out of the way. She places her hands on the slight curve of Darcy’s hip and gives her a shove.

Darcy slips between the rocks and stumbles into a dark and deep cave, overwhelmed with cool air. Hermione follows Darcy into the cave with ease, and Harry after. Ron is the next to squeeze through, brushing dirt off the front of his shirt. While the black dog waits, panting with his tongue out, Darcy helps Lupin through. He has to duck, too tall to shimmy through, and his shoulders and chest and much broader than she’d thought. She holds tight to his hand and pulls him through the crevice, and it’s then that Darcy looks around and surveys the area.

She jumps upon seeing Buckbeak tethered in the corner. The five of them maintain careful eye contact, bowing. Buckbeak gives them all a bow in return, allowing Hermione to stroke his neck and feathers, cooing to him. Darcy ignores the hippogriff for now, her stomach churning with the memory of flying him high above the castle, and looks at Sirius as he transforms from shaggy black dog to shaggy man before her very eyes. His oversized clothes—borrowed from Lupin the last time Sirius had visited—are caked in mud and dirt and stiff with sweat, and his hair is longer than before and more tangled. Darcy runs at him and Sirius’s arms wrap around her tight, holding her close to his chest.

“Did you bring food?” he asks Harry over the top of Darcy’s head. Sirius’s voice is hoarse, as if he hasn’t used it in years, but there’s a note of hope and anticipation as he asks.

“Yeah, of course,” comes Harry’s answer. Darcy pulls away from Sirius to watch Harry dump out the contents of his bag. Harry’s grinning and Sirius hugs his godson tight, sharing greeting with everyone else. He gives Hermione a one-armed hug and a pat on the cheek; Sirius and Ron shake hands eagerly; Sirius gives Lupin a pat on the shoulder, as the two grin at each other, muttering under their breaths to keep from everyone hearing.

“What are you doing here?” Darcy asks Sirius gently as he sorts through all the food. He reaches for a drumstick, tearing into it much like a dog. “If someone catches you—”

“No one will catch me,” Sirius promises her, his mouth full of food. “I only ever leave here as a dog. Been living off rats and stealing what papers I can out of the trash to keep updated.”

Lupin sits on the ground beside Sirius and Darcy sits between his legs, pulling her knees to her chest and thumbing through all of the old copies of the _Daily Prophet_. It feels so long since she’d last read a copy, afraid of opening it and seeing some cruel written, but seeing the headlines now makes her regret being so foolish. There are articles about Barty Crouch and Bertha Jorkins, important things that hadn’t been of much interest in the past. Lupin touches her left shoulder, his thumb brushing over her scars as she flips a page in a paper from a few days ago.

“Sirius,” Darcy begins, lowering the paper. “You never returned my letter about Barty Crouch. They’re still saying he’s ill—do you know anything about that? And what have you done with Max?”

“Sleeping somewhere, I expect,” Sirius answers, licking the chicken grease off his fingers. “Don’t worry, I haven’t eaten him yet.”

Darcy gives him a sharp look, but Sirius doesn’t notice, too busy eating. Harry takes the paper from Darcy’s hands, scanning the front page. “They make it seem like he’s dying. But obviously he can’t be that ill—he made it up to the castle, didn’t he? I saw him on the Marauder’s Map.” He shares a look with Darcy.

“Gemma thinks the map could have been wrong,” Darcy tells him.

Both Lupin and Sirius speak at the same, as if it’s something they’ve practiced a hundred times. “The map’s never wrong.”

Darcy looks over her shoulder at Lupin. He smiles weakly at her, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Remember Halloween night, Harry?” Darcy asks again. “He did look ill, didn’t he? Unless that’s just the way he looks.”

“It’s likely because he doesn’t have a house-elf to care for him anymore,” Hermione retorts, still petting Buckbeak, her nose held high in the air. “If you ask me, he got what he deserved. If he hadn’t sacked Winky—”

Ron rolls his eyes, looking to Sirius. “Hermione loves house-elves.”

“Crouch sacked his house-elf?” Sirius asks sharply, giving Darcy a quick and accusing once over. “You never put that in your letter.”

“I didn’t think it was that important,” Darcy shrugs sheepishly, leaning back against Lupin’s chest. Sirius narrows his eyes at the gesture, but says nothing. “And besides, I wasn’t there when it happened. It was at the Quidditch World Cup, and—well, I was preoccupied—”

“That is important,” Sirius answers, lowering a chicken thigh from his lips. “What could you have possibly preoccupied with?”

“Sirius,” Lupin says quietly. “Enough.”

Darcy feels a surge of affection for Lupin, and Sirius doesn’t continue pressing her for details. Harry takes over, telling Sirius that he, Ron, and Hermione had been there. Darcy listens carefully as Harry tells her what exactly had happened the night the Dark Mark was seen again, as the night of the Quidditch World Cup is something they don’t often bring up, mostly for the nasty memories Darcy has associated with it. Harry explains how they’d first met Winky in the Top Box, where she’d been saving a seat for Barty Crouch, who had never shown; how Harry had lost his wand in the forest somewhere. He tells Sirius about the Dark Mark being cast and Winky being found with Harry’s wand and Barty Crouch had been furious with the elf and fired her there. Darcy thinks Crouch had been a little too harsh with Winky by Harry’s account, but doesn’t say so. Thankfully, she’s saved by Hermione.

“But Winky didn’t steal Harry’s wand,” she interjects angrily, moving closer to the group sitting around a pile of food. Hermione seats herself at Darcy and Lupin’s side, crossing her arms over her chest. “Winky didn’t conjure the Dark Mark.”

Sirius gives Hermione a thoughtful look, scratching at the uneven beard on his face, much like Lupin does. “Who else sat with you in the box?”

Harry ruffles his hair, thinking. “Fudge was there, and some Bulgarian ministers. Oh, and the Malfoys were there, but that’s it.”

“Ludo Bagman was there,” Hermione says. “He was commentating, remember?”

“Ludo Bagman? I don’t know much about him,” Sirius confesses, and Darcy shifts awkwardly against Lupin. She sits up straighter and exchanges a knowing look with Hermione. “What’s he like?”

“He’s all right,” Harry answers quickly. “He keeps offering me help with the tournament.”

This seems to catch Sirius’s attention. “I wonder why he’d do that?”

“He says he’s taken a liking to me.” Harry shrugs.

Darcy clears her throat, drawing everyone’s attention. She can feel her cheeks turning pink, and Harry cocks an eyebrow. “Er—it’s nothing malicious, I promise.” But this explanation doesn’t seem acceptable to anyone. “Fine—I asked Mr. Bagman to keep an eye on you, a long time ago after your name came out of the Goblet of Fire, Harry. He promised he’d see if he could help you, but you won’t accept any of his damn help!”

Harry groans, the groan he gives when Darcy’s being particularly overbearing. “Darcy, you’re embarrassing me—”

“Forgive me for being worried,” Darcy snaps at her brother. “I hope you would have done the same for me.”

“I would have had a little more confidence in you,” Harry frowns. “You thought I needed Ludo Bagman’s help?”

“He’s the only one I trusted to help you—”

“You trust this Ludo Bagman, Darcy?” Sirius asks, cutting her off.

Darcy struggles for an answer, but is unsure why the words do not come easily to her. “I mean, yeah—”

“She went to the Yule Ball with him at Christmas. They made for a cute couple,” Ron chuckles. When Darcy turns her eyes onto Ron, he stops immediately. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed the way you were that night, Darcy. It was strange.”

Hermione shifts beside Darcy. “You’re being rude, Ron. Darcy looked very beautiful.”

Sirius scrunches his nose. “You went to a ball with Ludo Bagman and not Remus?”

Darcy turns, giving Lupin an incredulous look. “Help me out here, would you?”

Lupin sighs, rubbing his beard. “It was our idea—mine and Gemma’s, Darcy’s friend. We thought Ludo might know something about the Dark Mark or Harry’s name being put into the Goblet of Fire, or about anything.” He gives Darcy an apologetic look. “Ludo Bagman is fond of Darcy, more so than I’d like, perhaps, but…”

“He didn’t know anything that night, I’m sure of it,” Darcy finishes. “And I tried to ask him about Barty Crouch because he hasn’t been showing up for anything. I told you, Sirius—he didn’t come to the Yule Ball, and Percy was judging the second task for him.”

“Percy?” Sirius repeats.

“My older brother,” Ron explains, reaching out for a piece of bread. Sirius doesn’t protest. “He’s Crouch’s assistant. He’s been filling in for him.”

Sirius shakes his shaggy head, looking around at everyone. “Regardless, these absences of Barty Crouch’s are suspicious,” he says. “Darcy, you were right in writing to me. It strikes me as extremely odd that he’d work so hard on the Triwizard Tournament, but wouldn’t bother showing up. It’s not like him. Remus, what do you think?”

Lupin nods, getting to his feet and pacing the cave slowly. “Everything that Darcy’s told me seems like it could either go two ways—either it’s all coincidences, or something big is happening. Something is missing—but I don’t know what.”

“Do you _know_ Crouch?” Harry asks Sirius suddenly.

Sirius frowns, his face darkening to give him the look of an actual mass murderer. “Yes, I know Barty Crouch. He was the one who sentenced me to Azkaban without a trial.”

Harry seems momentarily too stunned to speak. When he gathers his thoughts, he, Ron, and Hermione all speak as one. “ _What_?”

Sirius’s version of events is far more dramatic than Lupin’s had been when he speaks of Barty Crouch in his heyday. Sirius paints a picture of a warzone—murders and kidnappings and torture taking place near everyday, has them all imagine a time of paranoia where neighbors aren’t to be trusted. He describes to them the appeal of Barty Crouch during those times—ruthless and merciless, willing to fight violence with violence, his dedication to eradicating Dark wizards everywhere, and Sirius continues telling them how he did not falter when his son, Barty Crouch Jr., had been brought to trial after being associated with Death Eaters. The sentencing of Crouch’s son had changed him, according to Sirius. Darcy listens carefully, shoulder to shoulder with Hermione as Lupin watches her, waiting for a reaction. He leans against the cave wall, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“So Crouch’s son is still in Azkaban?” Harry asks.

Darcy breaks a fruit tart in half, giving the larger piece to Hermione. She lifts her eyes to Sirius at Harry’s question.

“Oh, no,” Sirius says. “He died about a year after he arrived. And then Crouch’s wife died shortly after. Of grief, they said. The people turned against Barty after all of that—they sympathized with his son after his death.”

They’re all quiet for a time, letting the information sink in. Darcy doesn’t eat her tart, instead letting Hermione have the rest of it. Harry seems to be piecing together something, staring intently at his sister. “So Crouch hates Dark wizards…”

“Which must be why he sneaked up to Snape’s office!” Ron gasps, spitting crumbs from his mouth. “He thought he could find something to incriminate him!”

Sirius looks skeptical. “If Crouch wanted to investigate Snape, why wouldn’t he be coming to judge the tournament? It’s a good excuse to keep an eye on him.”

This appeals to Harry. “You think Snape is up to something, then?”

Darcy feels her heart sink. She doesn’t want to reveal anymore information than she must, especially to Harry, who might take it the wrong way. As her breathing quickens, Lupin kneels down beside her, smiling again.

“Dumbledore trusts Snape,” Hermione states matter of factly.

“You think Dumbledore couldn’t be fooled by a Dark wizard?” Ron scoffs.

“Hermione’s right, Ron,” Lupin says firmly, and Hermione swells with pride. “Dumbledore trusts Snape, so we should too. He must have his reasons, and if Dumbledore doesn’t feel comfortable giving his reasons to a bunch of kids, then we should respect that.” He hesitates for a moment, glancing nervously at Darcy. “Snape saved Darcy’s life—from _me_. Or have you all forgotten?”

There’s an awkward and heavy silence. Sirius is the first one to break it, his tone bitter, and it’s clear he’s speaking to Lupin and only Lupin. “You know why he saved her,” Sirius hisses.

“He saved Harry, as well, three years ago,” Darcy argues, feeling fiercely protective of Snape. “And he’s allowed me to come into his classroom—he’s allowed me to help teach his classes.”

“Just a little while ago, you hated him because he outed Lupin and lied about Sirius,” Harry argues.

“Look, Darcy,” Sirius says, holding out a finger and pointing it at her. “You don’t know what Snape was like in school. Greasy, slimy, prejudiced—obsessed with the Dark Arts. He ran around with people who nearly all turned out to be Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts.”

“What about you?” Darcy growls, her chest heaving. “What were you like in school? Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the _prank_ you pulled on Snape. You could have killed him!”

“All right, Darcy, that’s enough,” Lupin says. His voice is quiet, but reverberates around the cave, quieting them.

“You’re going to take his side over mine?”

“You weren’t there, Darcy,” Lupin replies. “You don’t know the circumstances, and it was years ago. We were boys.”

“Boys?” she scoffs, and Darcy is forcibly reminded of Aunt Petunia. For a moment, she is overwhelmed with disgust at herself, but her anger wins over. “Harry’s a boy, and he would never do something like that. I am the result of what could have happened to Snape—I am nearly the best case scenario. But because it was Snape, and not me, you think it’s all right to just brush it off?”

Lupin’s jaw clenches, and everyone looks away awkwardly. “We’re not doing this here.”

Darcy looks at him for a long time. He can’t meet her eyes; Lupin looks down at his feet, at other people’s faces, at Buckbeak in the corner.

“Hey!” Harry gets to his knees, looking excitedly at Darcy, trying to lighten the mood. “When Karkaroff came into class yesterday, what did he show Snape? He pulled up his sleeve and showed him something. You were there—you must have seen it!”

“Something on his arm?” Sirius asks, bewildered, the previous conversation nearly forgotten.

Darcy pauses, afraid to speak for a moment. She looks at Hermione, hoping she’ll open her mouth to defend Snape, but she looks curious. Darcy meets Sirius’s gray eyes next, feeling very small under everyone’s scrutinizing gazes. Finally, she looks at Lupin, back on his feet and leaning against the cave wall. “I—I don’t know,” she lies, hoping her expression doesn’t give her away. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t see it. But—Dumbledore said he trusts Snape with his life, and he wouldn’t have put me to work for him if he didn’t trust Snape with my life, either.”

Sirius gives his head a shake, getting his hair out of his face. “I can’t see Dumbledore letting Snape work at Hogwarts if he ever worked for Voldemort.”

Darcy wonders just how little Sirius knows after being locked away in Azkaban, and wonders how much she should say. Speaking to Ron this time, Sirius sighs. “You should ask your brother if he’s seen Crouch of late. Might be he knows something.”

Ron shrugs. “I’ll try, but no promises. He loves Crouch.”

“All the same, try—and maybe try asking if they’ve made any progress in regards to Bertha Jorkins,” Sirius urges. He looks around at them all, looking grave. “You lot should get back up to the castle—it’s getting late. And don’t think about sneaking out to see me, understood?”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron all nod in agreement, but Sirius looks right at Harry, happy with his answer.

“I’ll walk with you to the edge of the village.”

Everyone shuffles back out of the cave, leaving Sirius and Darcy alone for a few moments. She looks at him, brushing off the front of his shirt and frowning. “I can come see you, can’t I?” she whispers, but her voice echoes in the cave.

Sirius narrows his eyes at her. “Of course, but I’d feel much better if you brought Remus, or another friend of yours. I don’t like the idea of you wandering Hogsmeade alone,” he answers gently, his tone not at all matching the suspicious look on his face. Sirius touches her shoulders, squeezing for a moment. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Darcy? Something you maybe didn’t want to say in front of Harry?”

Darcy licks her lips, not looking away from his face. “No.”

He clearly doesn’t believe her, but Darcy doesn’t falter. “If there are things that you know,” he says, so quietly Darcy has to listen hard. “You should tell me.”

“I have nothing to tell.”

It takes him a few seconds, but Sirius eventually nods, placing a kiss on her forehead before following her back out into the sunshine as the shaggy black dog. Darcy walks alone behind everyone on the way back, her arms wrapped around herself. The dog trots beside Harry, panting happily; Hermione and Ron talk in low voices behind them; and Lupin follows them at distance, every so often looking over his shoulder. Each time he does, Darcy feels herself growing angrier.

_Maybe Snape isn’t a good person_ , she tells herself. _Maybe he’s done things that would anger me, too. But he didn’t deserve that. He saved me from that fate, the same way my father saved him. My father would have been on my side. James would have stood up for Snape—wouldn’t he?_ The thought plagues her when Sirius leaves them, and continues to plague her all the way to The Three Broomsticks, where she slowly follows Lupin up the wooden steps to his room. She closes the door quietly behind her, watching Lupin lie down on the bed.

“We’re not really going to fight about this, are we?” he asks mildly, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Darcy hisses. “Did you have plans? Or something else in mind to do? Please, let’s hear it.”

“Off the tip of my head, I can think of at least one thing I’d rather be doing with you.” The smile that crosses his face enrages her further, despite it being a very nervous smile.

Darcy exhales loudly, grabbing a pillow of the sofa and throwing it at him. Lupin cries out and sits up quickly, dodging the second pillow she throws at him. “You think you’re _so_ funny, don’t you?” she scowls. “With your _roguish_ wit, reliving your boyhood—”

Lupin jumps off the bed, frowning and raising his voice. “All right, you know what? You shouldn’t have said those things, Darcy.” He points an accusing finger at her. “You should have stopped talking well before that, and you shouldn’t have lied about what you saw.”

“I didn’t see anything.” Even now, Darcy doesn’t know why she’s defending Snape. _My father would have. If not him, my mother would have. My mother was kind above all._

Lupin shakes his head, scoffing. “I know you saw the Dark Mark. Sirius doesn’t know about Snape, and you didn’t tell him.”

“Neither did you,” Darcy retorts sharply, walking away from him, throwing some logs into the empty and blackened fireplace.

“I don’t think you need to be reminded of what happened the last time you withheld crucial information.”

Darcy’s heart stops. She feels the tears rushing to her eyes, her palms sweating. She drops the log in her hand and stands up, turning around slowly to face Lupin. When she speaks, it’s a soft tone she’s rarely heard from her own mouth. It’s dangerous—so unlike her. “You’re saying it’s my fault that Emily’s mother is dead?”

Lupin sighs, defeated, running his hands through his hair as Darcy pushes past him, gathering her belongings and stuffing them in her bag. “No, Darcy—” She wipes her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, making for the door. Slamming it shut behind her, Darcy storms down the stairs into the crowded common room.

She’s halfway to the door when Lupin comes racing down the stairs. “Darcy, come back—please—”

Darcy exits The Three Broomsticks, and hesitates just outside the door. She clutches her chest, a sharp pain shooting through her—surely her breaking heart. Forcing herself to keep walking, Lupin soon barrels out onto the High Street, running to her side.

“I’m sorry, Darcy—” He moves in front of her, grabbing her arms and stopping her. Lupin’s breath comes in short gasps and he rests his forehead against hers for a moment, swallowing. “Please don’t go.”

“Let go of me.”

Lupin releases her, but keeps pace with her. “Come back, please,” he begs. “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry—please, please don’t go—”

Darcy continues to ignore him, crying all the while, the guilt washing over her again.

Finally, Lupin senses defeat, stopping as she continues up the path. “If you leave now,” he calls, “I’m not coming back for the full moon!”

“Good!” she shouts back at him. She turns suddenly, taking a few steps closer to him. “You and Gemma can have fun together without me.”

Lupin moves even closer. “Yeah? I’m sure Ludo Bagman’s already been waiting since you left for you to return to your room.”

Before Darcy knows what’s happening, her hand collides with his cheek. His head goes with the slap and he staggers backward a moment, bringing a hand up to his cheek. Darcy pulls her hand back, horrified, taking another step towards him. “I’m so sorry,” she breathes, her heart thumping in her ears. “Remus—oh—I’m so sorry, I’m—”

Darcy reaches out for the hand cupping his cheek, but Lupin flinches. He moves his face away from her hand, breathing heavily. Lupin doesn’t look at her, and Darcy covers her mouth as she sobs again, shame rising in her.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, backing away. “I’m so sorry.” She turns on her heel, walking as fast as she can back up to the castle.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was going to post this last night, but I fell asleep

“He’s asking for you.”

“I’m not going down there,” Darcy says, rounding a corner and starting up the marble steps. “He said he wasn’t going to come back to Hogsmeade—”

“Like he’s the first boy who’s ever bluffed to keep a pretty girl from walking away?” Gemma smiles, infuriating Darcy. She wishes she could wipe that stupid smile off her face, wishes she could make Gemma understand the hurt she’s feeling, the empty aching in her heart. “I know you’re upset about slapping him—and goddamn, was that a nice bruise—but he isn’t holding a grudge, you know.”

“I know,” Darcy answers shortly. “He’s sent flowers and letters, and he told Max to peck my fingers until I write back.”

“He—what? How do you know he told Max to peck your fingers? Surely Max can’t suddenly talk?”

“Because Max has been pecking my fingers,” Darcy shrieks, holding up her fingers to show Gemma the small and deep cuts all over. “And Max never pecks my fingers. He only pecks at Remus’s.” She sighs heavily, tangling her fingers in her hair and grabbing fistfuls of it while walking down the corridor. “How’s his cheek? I didn’t mean to do it, honest—”

“Darcy, it’s fine,” Gemma chuckles. “I made him beg first, but I was able to fix it pretty easily. The both of us came to the conclusion that he very probably deserved it—”

“No, he didn’t. He didn’t deserve that, no matter what he said,” Darcy says sharply. “How could you think that? Did you make him think that? Why are you so cruel, Gemma?”

Darcy can’t say she hadn’t really expected it. Gemma had brought her the news one evening, a little more than a week prior to the full moon (much earlier than he would have arrived under different conditions), confiding in Darcy with a smile that Lupin had indeed returned to Hogsmeade, despite what he’d said. It had begun with Lupin sending things back to Hogwarts with Gemma—a bottle of firewhisky or a box of chocolates with notes attached, apologizing for what he’d said, and then it turned into owls delivering flowers to her at breakfast while giggling students watched on, which then turned into him sending her note after note, begging her to come down to Hogsmeade and talk with him. Privately, Darcy had felt derived some perverted sense of pleasure each time something was given or delivered to her—the knowledge that Lupin is actively trying so hard just to get her to walk down to Hogsmeade is astounding, and something no one has ever done for her before.

Yet she still remembers the night they’d fought, and Darcy remembers crying herself to sleep that night and the night after and the night after, even with Lupin sending her gifts. The idea that he could even think, for a single second, that the Quidditch World Cup was her fault nearly destroys her—Darcy had sought comfort from him that night, had gone to his home and allowed him to hold her, all while he told her over and over again, “ _it’s not your fault_.” Mr. Duncan had blamed her, and Darcy feels that Emily still has a slight bit of resentment towards her, as well. Darcy had struggled for a long time with the weight of that guilt, and to have Lupin throw it in her face like it’s nothing shatters her heart.

“You need to just go down there,” Gemma insists, skipping over the trick step on the staircase and quickening her pace to match Darcy’s strides. “You need to go down there and get it over with.”

“I can’t—”

“Did you and Professor Lupin break up?”

Darcy and Gemma both jump, turning around quickly. Gemma laughs when she sees Hermione running up the stairs towards them, expertly avoiding the trick stair and squeezing in between the two older girls. “Hermione,” Darcy growls. “What are you doing here? This conversation doesn’t involve you—and I want to know who told you that.”

“Carla did,” Hermione replies, her cheeks turning pink. She looks away from Darcy, instead examining her fingernails. “She said you were arguing outside Hogsmeade. Is it true? Please tell me it isn’t true.”

Closing her eyes and composing herself, Darcy decides not to answer Hermione. She takes another step forward and Gemma and Hermione follow suit. Gemma speaks before Darcy can continue. “You haven’t told anyone? You haven’t told Harry that you’ve been fighting?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at Darcy over the top of Hermione’s head.

“Why would I tell Harry that we’ve been fighting?” Darcy snaps. “That’s what people do, isn’t it? They fight?”

Gemma doesn’t answer, but bites down on her bottom lip, looking thoughtful. Darcy wishes Hermione would scatter so she can hear whatever blunt sentiment Gemma’s holding back, but she doesn’t have the heart or energy to tell Hermione off right now.

“If I go down there, I need you to come with me,” Darcy tells Gemma. “You have to be like, my buffer.”

“Your _buffer_? From what?”

“I don’t know!” Darcy whines, groaning. It echoes all around her. “If I go down there by myself and he says something so sweet or if he tries to kiss me—I need you to be my impulse control, Gemma. If he takes one piece of clothing off, I won’t be able to stop myself—”

“You could not pay me enough to be in that room with the two of you,” Gemma says, smiling at Hermione and rolling her eyes dramatically. “As if I’d want to listen to you arguing, and you know I’m a terrible impulse control. If anything, I’d be encouraging you. Just go down there and fuck him and get it over with—”

“I’m not going to fuck him—”

“Why not?”

“Because if I fuck him, that means he wins, and he knows it. I know what’s going to happen if I go down there—he’s going to turn up the charm, call me ‘kitten’ and give me alcohol, and then he’s going to kiss me and apologize and then five minutes later, I’m going to be naked on the bed.”

“He calls you ‘kitten’?” Gemma asks, scrunching her nose. “Gross. And watch what you say—Hermione’s still here.”

Indeed she is, her entire face beet red and her eyes wide with shock. The sight of her staring straight ahead, too disgusted or stunned to speak, makes Darcy laugh. It’s a weak laugh, and hoarse, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. “Sorry, Hermione,” Darcy rasps, throwing an arm around her shoulders. But her joy does not last long—Darcy frowns, feeling the weight on her shoulders again. She retracts her arm from around Hermione’s shoulder and lets the three of them into her room. “We aren’t _really_ broken up, are we?” Darcy asks Hermione and Gemma anxiously.

The two exchange a nervous look, and Gemma takes over. “No, Darcy—you’re being ridiculous.”

Darcy begins to pace the room, breathing heavily. “I mean—I was right, wasn’t I? Sirius shouldn’t have done that to Snape, and Remus shouldn’t have defended him. And he shouldn’t have—” She breaks off suddenly, having forgotten Hermione is in the room, not daring to say anymore.

“They were boys,” Gemma shrugs. “No one died, no one got hurt, and Lupin’s right, you weren’t there and you don’t know the circumstances—”

Darcy rounds on Gemma, scowling. “Whose side are you on? I thought you were my best friend.”

“I’m just trying to see it from both ways—I’m playing both sides because I like—”

“No, no, no, no, no—” Darcy lets out a frustrated growl. “You can’t just play both sides, Gemma!”

“He’s my friend too,” Gemma hisses. “You’re both my friends.”

“No, you’re _my_ friend—”

“What Sirius did was really awful, Darcy, I agree with you,” Hermione squeaks, and Darcy’s eyes snap to her, surprised that she’s spoken. “But it happened years ago, and there’s no sense arguing about it now.”

Gemma gives Darcy a knowing look. “You’re insane, do you know that?” she laughs.

And just like that, Darcy begins to cry, holding her face in her hands. Gemma and Hermione leap off the sofa, taking her hands and urging her to sit. Hermione starts a small fire and resumes her seat beside Darcy. “I know,” she cries. “What’s happening to me?”

“Mental breakdown,” Gemma explains plainly. “I’ve seen it before. Remember Emily in fourth year?”

Darcy looks at Gemma, horrified. “That’s different.”

“What happened to Emily in fourth year?” Hermione asks slowly.

“It’s not a pretty story,” Gemma tells her, raising her eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Hermione nods.

“Emily had her first and only boyfriend in fourth year,” Gemma says softly, allowing Darcy to lean on her shoulder. “He was older, a sixth year Ravenclaw named John. They went out for a while and Emily was so in love with him—I’d never seen Emily so in love before, nor have I seen her so in love since. But you know Emily, she’s got a stick up her ass most of the time—she wasn’t ready for a lot of the things John wanted to do, and made a whole big deal about it.”

“I don’t know that I want to hear this story anymore,” Hermione whispers, looking away from Gemma.

“No,” Gemma answers, too serious. “You probably don’t.” She turns her attention back to Darcy. “I’ll be down in Hogsmeade in the morning. Should I say anything?”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Gemma assured her. “He’s doing fine. Don’t worry. But we’ll need to talk soon about the end of the experiment. This is the last month.” She raises her eyebrows. “Come with me down to Hogsmeade tomorrow and we’ll all talk about it. Dinner for the three of us—on me.”

Darcy exhales through her nose. “No,” she says, getting to her feet. “Just leave me.”

Gemma clenches her jaw and takes Hermione by the hand, pulling her from the sofa. “Come, my love,” she murmurs. “Let’s go.”

Darcy shuts herself in her bedroom, pacing again until stripping and getting into the shower. She scrubs violently at her skin, as if she scrubs hard enough, the memory of the Quidditch World Cup will disappear with everything else. She cries as the water pours over her, her skin rubbed raw and bright red. _My fault, my fault, my fault_. The image of Mrs. Duncan invades her thoughts—her face frozen in the same way her mother’s had been when Voldemort murdered her. Mrs. Duncan’s bright blue eyes, so like her daughter’s, open and unseeing, her blonde hair spread out all around her, making her beautiful even in death.

When she does finally settle into bed, as the sun is still going down outside her window, the bed seems much bigger and emptier than usual. And when she finally falls asleep, she wakes several times crying and panting, woken by nightmares. Nightmares of her own mother dying, of Mrs. Duncan and the scene of absolute destruction at the Quidditch World Cup. The last time she wakes, she scrambles out of bed, wiping off her arms and the back of her neck, the feeling of spiders crawling all over her skin giving her chills up and down her spine. Standing almost naked in her own room, Darcy wraps her arms around herself, feeling more alone than she remembers feeling in a long time.

* * *

The owls drop several letters on her plate the next morning at breakfast, splashing the front of Darcy’s robes with oatmeal and orange juice. Amidst some laughter, Darcy wipes the juice from her chin with her sleeve, looking down at her robes. Thankfully, they’ve shielded her actual clothes from any spills.

Darcy dries her clothes, pointing her wand at herself, and she watches Snape collect the letters that have fallen in front of her. “You don’t need these,” he murmurs, and Darcy smiles weakly at him. He doesn’t return it, instead pressing his wand to one of the letters and making them all Vanish. “I want you to begin brewing Veritaserum today—we’re going to begin the lesson next month in our N.E.W.T. class.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have a stack of first year homework that needs graded, unless you’d rather the fourth year homework.”

Darcy pushes her bowl of ruined oatmeal away. “I don’t mind doing them both, Professor.”

“Leave your brother’s homework on my desk when before you take it with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Classes drag on and on. Karkaroff comes calling on Snape during a class of first years, his face contorted with rage. Snape forces him out, leaving Darcy to take over the lesson. It’s the only thing that seems to give her joy lately, and Darcy smiles when she’s able to make most of the class laugh. Snape’s gone for what seems like half the class, and Darcy makes her rounds of the room, offering tips to nervous students and showing them how to prepare each ingredient properly. It’s hard to stop smiling once she starts. Snape had allowed her to help in some classes, allowed her to help with demonstrations and small presentations.

She confesses to Snape afterwards that she enjoyed teaching the lesson, and he looks almost surprised, but says nothing in answer. So she tells Harry so that evening as they sit down to a private dinner.

“I feel like I was good at it, you know?” Darcy rambles, shoving food into her mouth and drinking deeply from her cup. “It was like they liked me. Remus was a good teacher, wasn’t he? He was the best we ever had.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, spearing some meat onto his fork. “He was good. I’m sure you were great.”

Darcy lowers her fork, her heart a little lighter than it has been. When she speaks, it’s mostly to herself. “I was _good_. They _liked_ me.”

“Everyone likes you, Darcy.”

She frowns, taking another long drink of wine. “You know that’s not true.”

Harry drops all pretense, looking awkward, but determined. “Hermione said something happened between you and Lupin.”

Darcy looks down at her plate, pushing her food around. She refills her cup with more wine, drinking it quickly. “Nothing happened,” she lies. “Don’t worry about it. And you can tell Hermione I’m onto her.” Darcy sighs, leaning back in her chair. “How is she? Gemma said one of those mean letters sent her to the hospital wing a few days ago.”

“She’s all right,” Harry says. “She said you and Lupin were fighting over what Sirius did to Snape.”

“Harry, it’s none of your business.”

“I thought we didn’t keep secrets.”

There’s a long silence following his comment and Darcy feels a pang of guilt. _I’m keeping so many secrets from him_. Not that her argument with Lupin should be revealed—that really is none of his business, she thinks. There are things Harry doesn’t know that Darcy isn’t keen on telling him—the sight of the Dark Mark on Karkaroff’s arm, the fact that Snape has one branded on his arm, even the source of the Gillyweed (though she’s content with Harry giving the credit completely to Dobby), things Lupin and Gemma and Emily have told her in confidence in regards to Ludo Bagman and his past experience with Death Eaters. But she definitely doesn’t want to tell him what she and Lupin had really been arguing about, definitely doesn’t want to admit it was because he thought it was their fault for not warning anyone about the Quidditch World Cup.

“I just don’t want to talk about it right now.” Darcy sits up straighter, picking at her food again. “Tell me about your classes. Are you doing well? How are Moody’s classes?”

Harry shrugs. “They’re all right I guess,” he answers. “Tell me more about the class you taught, though.”

Darcy smiles, meeting eyes with Harry for a moment. “Well, it was pretty basic, I suppose, but…”

* * *

Darcy spreads out all of her photographs on her bed, the full moon spilling light through her windows to illuminate the pictures. She’d taken them off all of her shelves, the mantelpiece, found some at the bottom of her bag, and took others out of her dresser and nightstand. She looks at them all, smiling at some and placing her favorites aside. There are a few she wants to give to Gemma—one of them Darcy had taken during a Hogsmeade weekend, when Harry and his friends had all spent time in Lupin’s room. Gemma’s asleep sitting up on the sofa, Hermione’s head resting against Gemma’s thigh, her eyes closed. Another had been taken by Lupin of Darcy and Gemma smoking a cigarette outside The Three Broomsticks, huddled under one cloak and giggling at each other. Darcy sets aside another photo of she and Gemma, also taken by Lupin a few nights before a full moon—in it, Darcy’s lying back on the bed, reading a book, while Gemma’s head is on Darcy’s stomach, fast asleep. Looking through the photographs, Darcy wonders when it was that she and Gemma had gotten so close, and she wonders if Emily ever hurts at night thinking Gemma’s her replacement, as Darcy sometimes thinks of Tonks.

There’s quite a few of Darcy and Harry, as well—most photographs show a reluctant Harry in them, struggling to get away from an overbearing and over eager sister. But they make her smile anyway, and she chooses a few that she loves the best and puts them at her side with the others. She picks her favorite picture of her and Ron too, just to be fair, and sets aside another one of she and Hermione, dressed for the Yule Ball and looking like two complete strangers.

But the overwhelming majority of the pictures are of she and Lupin, of each other. Hopelessly in love, faces buried in each other’s shoulders or neck, pictures taken in the middle of laughter—Lupin never shies away from Darcy’s camera, something that surprises her. He always smiles when she tells him to, always the same smile—a goofy and toothy one that makes him seem no older than a boy Darcy’s age. He’s handsome, she thinks, handsome in a very hardened way, a rugged way. And she wants to be down in Hogsmeade with him, wants to be able to reach out in bed and touch him, wants to feel his fingers brushing against her back to make sure she’s still there.

_My fault, my fault, my fault_.

_He didn’t mean that_ , she scolds herself. _He was angry. We both said things we didn’t mean._

She quiets, listening hard, wondering if she’ll be able to hear the howls and whines of the werewolf that will be in the Shrieking Shack tonight. But the only things she can hear is the hooting of distant owls, the chirping of insects in the trees, and every so often the breeze’s unsettling whispers when it whips through the cracks and crevices in the castle walls.

Darcy lays in bed, surrounded by photographs, afraid to sleep, afraid to see cold and dead faces in her dreams, afraid to remember the look of Tom Riddle’s unnaturally white skin, afraid to remember the feel of Devil’s Snare wrapping its thick tentacles around her neck, afraid to remember the color green of the spell that killed her parents. So she doesn’t sleep—she lies awake, forcing herself to think of other things, like teaching half a Potions lesson or the fact that there’s only one more task to be done and then the Triwizard Tournament will finally be over. And Sirius is nearby—she’ll be able to take time to spend with her godfather, absent from her life for so many years and finally able to love her again.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she’s woken by Gemma, shaking her awake. Darcy’s eyes flutter open, the image of the burnt tents and scorched grass of the Quidditch World Cup in her mind’s eye. “Gemma?” she rasps, the sunlight bright on her face. “What are you doing here? What time is it?”

Gemma pushes aside some of the pictures, clearing a space for her to sit. “He’s asking for you, Darcy.”

“I can’t go down today,” Darcy grumbles, burying her face back into her pillow. “I have classes today.” She lifts her head, checking her watch. “I have classes in an hour. Leave me alone, would you?”

“You should go down, Darcy,” Gemma says softly, touching Darcy’s back. “There was a problem with the potion.”

“A problem?” Darcy repeats, sitting up straight and her heart beginning to beat fast and hard inside her chest. “What do you mean? Is Remus all right?”

“He’s fine—he’s resting. I’ve patched him up best I can and seen to his hurts.” Gemma shifts uncomfortably on the bed, looking down into her lap. “The potion didn’t work well with Wolfsbane. He’s in bad shape, neither of us having expected a full blown transformation.”

Darcy glances out of the window, down towards the village. It’s hidden from sight, but part of her is prepared to jump from the window, to go see him, to care for him. “Professor Snape would never let me miss class to take a trip to Hogsmeade. Especially if he knew I was skipping to see Remus.”

She doesn’t bother asking Snape if she can miss classes. Her anxiety peaks at lunch, when she sees Gemma heading down the path to Hogsmeade through the Great Hall’s windows, her trunk full of medicines and potions and salves in her hand, dragging it along clumsily. Darcy’s leg bounces throughout the final class of the day, and she wishes she could say why she’s so nervous. She isn’t sure if it’s the idea of talking to him again after what had been said, or if she’s afraid to see the condition that he’s in.

Darcy walks into the hospital wing after the last class ends, clutching her stomach. Madam Pomfrey is bent over a crying third year Hufflepuff girl with broken boils on her face. Gemma’s scrubbing out some bedpans with magic, her nose scrunched, and thick gloves pulled up to her elbows. “I can’t,” Darcy gasps, nearly running to Gemma. “I can’t do it—I can’t—”

“You have to,” she replies, putting the bedpan down and taking her gloves off. Gemma reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded square of parchment, holding it out for Darcy. “Lupin gave me this when I went down at lunch. Said it’s for you.”

She takes it hesitantly, unfolding it. She reads the scribbled words quickly, frowning. _I could use a gentle pair of hands._

“He always does this,” Darcy tells Gemma. “He always plays the wounded animal because he knows it works, and he knows I can’t say no.”

“He _is_ a wounded animal right now,” Gemma answers quietly. “You’re telling me you still aren’t going to go down there? The man just turned into a werewolf—have a heart.”

Darcy wraps her arms around herself. “I’m nervous,” she admits. “I don’t want to talk about the Quidditch World Cup, or Emily’s mother.” She looks at the note again in her hands, remembering another night that she’d gotten a letter her similar to this. She remembers sitting by him as he laid in bed, remembers him apologizing to her for hurting her, and she remembers crawling on top of him, allowing him to touch her in ways she’d only ever dreamed of him doing. “He needs me.”

“Darcy,” Gemma says. “I didn’t know the potion would affect the Wolfsbane, as well.”

“I don’t need an apology from you.”

“Just…” Gemma runs a hand through her hair. “Tell him I’m sorry.” She smiles weakly at Darcy, touching her cheek and pulling her gloves back on. “Tell me everything when you come back.”

Darcy nods, smiling. “I will.”

She makes her way down to Hogsmeade immediately afterwards, the sun low in the sky by then. Her heart races all the way down the path, and she sweats slightly from both the warm and from nerves. She has to ask Madam Rosmerta which room he’s staying in, and she leads her up the stairs to where Lupin is staying. Darcy thanks her, hesitating outside the door.

_My fault, my fault, my fault._

Darcy knocks three times in quick succession.

Lupin’s voice is quiet and hoarse. “Come in.”

 


	49. Chapter 49

“You came.”

At the mere sight of him lying on the bed, shirtless and with a large bandage on the left side of his stomach, Darcy feels tears building painfully in her eyes, and she wipes them away angrily as they slip down her cheeks. “Don’t be an idiot,” she cries. “You knew I would.”

Lupin sits up, closing his book and placing it on the nightstand. The scene is so familiar that it makes her dizzy—the night she and Lupin had slept together for the first time still seems so fresh in her memory. He had looked just as weak, just as tired and weary. “Did you get the flowers?”

“Yes. They were lovely, thank you.” In truth, the only flowers she’d kept in her own bedroom were the lilies he sent—she’s come to find she appreciates the comfort they bring her. The others—the fluffy white roses, the baby blue forget-me-nots, the daisies—she’d given to Madam Pomfrey to place around the hospital wing, and even Snape allowed her to put a vase full of flowers in the dungeon classroom after she’d cried about it. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been worse,” he smiles weakly. On his neck are two smaller bandages, some small scratches that Gemma clearly hadn’t bothered to fix. “Besides, you’re here now.”

Darcy moves to the bed, climbing up beside him. She touches his left cheek, now completely bruise free. He doesn’t flinch away from her touch, and closes his eyes when she kisses his cheek softly. Lupin turns his head, resting his forehead against hers. “You hurt me,” Darcy whispers, letting her eyes close. “I looked to you for comfort after the Quidditch World Cup—how could you say those things to me?” She sits up and their eyes flutter open.

Lupin looks away, shifting uncomfortably. Darcy’s pleased that he has a hard time meeting her eyes. Finally, his eyes do meet hers, and Lupin looks incredibly apologetic. “I know I hurt you,” he tells her, leaning back on the bed’s headboard. “I’m sorry. I never should have said those things to you.” His hand reaches out to find her cheek, and he wipes her tears away with his thumb. “You know I don’t believe it was your fault. You know that.”

The warmth on her face fades when Lupin’s hand falls back to his side. “I never should have said those things to Sirius.” Darcy sighs heavily, rubbing her eyes. “I never should have hit you. I am so, so sorry.”

“I want you to know,” he says, frowning, “that I am not proud of some things we did as boys. Harry is—a remarkably kind boy. You’re right, I don’t believe he’d ever do some of the things we did.”

“Was my father cruel?” Darcy asks. Lupin’s brow furrows at the question. “Does Professor Snape have the truth of it?”

“I wouldn’t say James was particularly cruel,” Lupin answers hesitantly. “He could be unkind to those he thought deserved it. Severus just happened to be one of those people.” He smiles fondly then, a sad smile as if remembering better days—days now long gone, friends long gone. “James and Lily would be proud of you, and of the boy Harry is because of you.”

Darcy smiles shyly, her eyes still shining with tears. “Thank you. Remus,” she breathes, and he nods, urging her to continue. “Do you love me?”

Lupin gives her a tired smile. “Yes,” he says. “I do.”

She lowers her eyes to the bandage on his stomach. Her jaw clenches, and Darcy suddenly feels so sad for him that she starts to cry again. She reaches out for it slowly, and when Lupin doesn’t protest, she starts to peel the edges of it off, pulling gently. The single long scar runs horizontally just below his navel, and is still angry and swollen, reminiscent of the scars on Darcy’s shoulder. They twinge for a moment—she’d almost forgotten about them, as she does so often now. Discarding the bandage, Darcy looks up at him. “I’m afraid,” she confesses.

His eyebrows knit together again. “Of?”

“The way Sirius described life during the war,” she continues, pulling her knees to her chest. The bed creaks and groans beneath them as she shifts. “Is that how it really was?”

Lupin’s quiet for a moment, his eyes roving over her face. “Towards the end of our years at Hogwarts, things started to change, much like they are now,” he says. “People were paranoid—no one knew who they could trust, who might be Imperiused. People disappeared and there were murders nearly everyday, and not just witches and wizards, but Muggles, as well. They were afraid it would be them next, or their family, or their friends—Voldemort doesn’t show mercy—”

“No,” Darcy states suddenly, frowning. Lupin stops abruptly, blinking at her in surprise. “Voldemort showed my mother mercy. He told her to step aside. He gave her the chance to live.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say for a few seconds, but her words have made him wary. Darcy regrets speaking at all. “Darcy,” Lupin says again, looking suspicious. “If Voldemort does come back, and if there is another war, they will hunt you and they will try very hard to kill you.”

“Let them try,” she replies softly, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “If I must die, it will be at Harry’s side.”

Lupin smiles at her—a tense smile. Darcy can sense his frustration, but she admires his patience all the same. “When I decided to fight against Voldemort, it was because I had nothing to lose, and now—now I have _everything_ to lose.” He sits up again, taking her hands in his. “We should go into hiding, live out the rest of our lives, however little years we have left to us.”

“You want to run away?” Darcy asks, confused. “I won’t run away and leave Harry by himself.”

“I want you to be safe,” he says quickly. “James and Lily went into hiding when they knew Voldemort was going to hunt them and kill them—it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Darcy, I don’t want to lose you—I don’t want you to leave in the mornings and leave me wondering if I’ll ever see you again. I’ll take care of you, love, you know that.”

“I can’t go into hiding,” Darcy tells him incredulously, pulling her hands away from him. “I have—I have _responsibilities_ —I have a job, my brother—I can’t just leave Harry behind. My parents died for us—my mother died to protect us, and I won’t—”

“You are not Harry’s mother,” Lupin counters, sounding exasperated. “He’s not your responsibility—”

“He became my responsibility when my mother was murdered,” she protests. “I chose to raise Harry in her place, and I won’t back out just because—”

“Harry has me, Sirius, the Weasleys, and you think Gemma wouldn’t check in on him? You don’t have to carry all of that weight on your own shoulders.”

Darcy shakes her head. _Don’t you understand?_ she wants to scream at him. _Without Harry, I am nothing_. “He’s my brother,” she says again, firmly. “And I have to—”

Lupin cuts her off with a swift kiss, his hands on either side of her face. Darcy melts into him, hating herself for succumbing so damn easily to him, hating herself for opening her mouth for him, letting him deepen the kiss. _I knew this would happen_ , she tells herself, allowing him to pull her to him, placing a knee on either side of his waist. _I knew if I came here, this would happen_. Darcy breaks the kiss, looking down at him, tracing the scars on her chest with her fingertips.

“I don’t want to fight anymore, please. I’m sorry,” he admits, his chest heaving. There’s an uncomfortable silence as hurt flashes across his face. “I thought you weren’t going to come back.”

She looks at him for a long time, fear gripping her heart. She tries to imagine kissing him for the last time, touching him for the last time. She wonders if her parents had felt this same fear during the war, wondering if they would ever see each other again when one of them walked out the front door. _My dream_ , she thinks, _that’s all I have left. A dream that, one day, maybe I’ll have a family, a loving husband, a beautiful child. If a war takes that from me—if a war takes him from me—what will I have then? I can’t be alone._ “Of course I was going to come back,” she says. “I love you, you stupid.”

Lupin smiles, his fingers trailing up and down the sides of her arms. “You know that I didn’t mean what I said, don’t you?”

Darcy hesitates, but nods her head. Lupin’s fingers thread through her hair and he kisses her hard again, pulling away from her when she pulls her sweater up over her head. His lips work their way down her throat, nipping softly at her skin, the tip of his tongue flicking out just enough to barely taste her with each kiss. She thinks he’ll continue to kiss her all over, but when he reaches her chest, Lupin rests his cheek against her, as if to listen to her heartbeat, and wraps his arms around her waist.

Darcy puts her cheek atop his head. “I’m sorry I hit you,” she says, placing a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll never do it again.”

“I deserved it, didn’t I? After what I’d said?”

“No,” she answers sharply, pulling back from him. Lupin looks up at her with wide eyes—soft eyes, nearly golden in the candlelight and bright when they catch the setting sunlight still filtering through the grimy windows. “You didn’t deserve that. How could you think that?”

He doesn’t seem to have an answer ready. Darcy kisses him hard, running her fingers through his hair. She remembers a time where all she wanted was to do this—to show him how much she loves him, because she needs him to know how much he is loved.

“What if we don’t win?” she asks again, and she feels his fingers flex and settle carefully upon the scars on her shoulder. “What if it’s all for nothing?”

He exhales through his nose, smoothing her hair back with his left hand. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he thinks. “Listen to me, kitten,” he whispers to her, tracing her jawline with his index finger. Darcy smiles weakly, his finger leaving her skin feeling hot. “When this is all over, we’ll go somewhere far away where no one will ever find us. You’ll have your pretty house, you’ll have your five children—” They both chuckle, and Darcy sighs contently.

“Five is a lot,” she answers quietly.

Lupin grins. “It is.” His smile fades slightly, and he cups Darcy’s cheek. “When this is over, I will give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

_Empty words, an empty promise_ , she thinks, her smile slipping, as well. _Does he think we won’t win, either? Is this his way of comforting me? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s given me false promises_. But the idea of it all—of finally being able to have the life she’s always dreamed of—a life that had always been just out of her grasp, that seemed impossible at times… to think of a life like that with Lupin, who has loved her in ways she never knew a person could be loved… “Do you think I’d make a good mother?”

He lets out a sweet, soft laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “I think you would.”

“You’re just saying that,” Darcy teases, and his laughter is louder this time, more genuine.

“No, I mean it,” he says again, holding her close to him and kissing her everywhere his lips can reach. His kisses her cheeks and her nose, her one dimple, her neck, her lips. “I mean it—I love you—I love you—”

“Don’t leave me,” she sighs into his ear. Lupin’s hand is planted firmly on the small of her back, the other tangled in her hair. Darcy tilts her head back, opening her throat to him. “Please, don’t leave me.”

“Never.”

When Gemma makes her way back down to Hogsmeade that evening, she finds Darcy and Lupin seated at a back table, his arm draped around her shoulders. Gemma seats herself across the table from them, before the tankard of beer already ordered for her, smiling at Darcy.

Darcy looks away from Gemma’s intense gaze and smile, blushing furiously as Lupin kisses her temple. “Shut up.”

* * *

“Where are we going? I’ve never been down this way before,” Gemma says, gasping. Darcy turns around quickly to find Gemma stumbling over a large rock. “It’s fucking pitch black out here and you’ve got us climbing a damn mountain—”

“Use your wand, idiot,” Darcy laughs, holding out a hand to help steady Gemma. “Are you a witch or not?”

“ _Lumos_ ,” Gemma whispers, huffing and puffing as she continues climbing. The light from her wand illuminates her thin face, and her forehead shines with sweat. “Fuck you, Potter—are you taking me out here to kill me? Come on—haven’t I been good to you?”

Darcy hums thoughtfully, making her way up the rocky path. She slings the bag full of food higher on her shoulder. “That’s what I thought too when Harry and everyone brought me out here. Watch—there’s a root here.”

“How much further? I’m not exactly wearing proper shoes for this.”

“I told you we were going for a walk.”

“A walk,” Gemma grumbles, tripping again. “I had in mind a nice stroll through Hogsmeade, maybe some shopping. I didn’t think you meant a hike.”

“Here,” Darcy says, ignoring Gemma’s complaints. She slides into the slim opening in the rocks, making sure she doesn’t get caught this time. She waits for Gemma to sneak through, but she seems hesitant to follow Darcy. Darcy turns, bowing to Buckbeak, who bows back, and Gemma comes through as she greets the black dog. “Hey, Sirius.”

“Sirius?” Gemma asks incredulously, forcing her way into the cave. She brushes herself off and holds up her wand, shrieking. “What is that thing? Is that a hippogriff? You _did_ bring me here to kill me, didn’t you?”

Buckbeak ruffles his feathers. Darcy moves to calm him as Sirius trods up to the hippogriff, nuzzling against him. She pets the both of them. “It’s Buckbeak,” Darcy grins, laughing at the horrified look on Gemma’s face. “Bow to him, Gemma. It’s all right, Buckbeak. This is my friend.”

Gemma bows nervously, keeping her eyes fixed on the hippogriff. Buckbeak bows back and Gemma relaxes, sighing loudly. “This is the one you rode?” she asks, stepping up to stroke Buckbeak’s neck. Then, she looks at the dog circling Darcy’s feet. “So that’s…?”

Darcy waves her wand above her head, lighting up the cave with small, glowing, blue flames. Before their eyes, the dog transforms into her godfather, and Gemma’s eyes are wide with awe. Sirius wraps an arm around Darcy’s shoulders, kissing her on the head and smiling at Gemma. “I thought I told you not to wander around Hogsmeade alone,” Sirius says, his tone playful. “Where’s Remus?”

“He left for home after the full moon, but he left some of his old clothes for you. They’re in the bag,” Darcy answers, breaking free from Sirius’s hold and placing the bag of food on the ground. She’s quite glad Lupin had thought to leave clothes, because Sirius’s are stained and littered with holes. “Sirius, this is my friend, Gemma.”

“Gemma,” Sirius repeats, shaking Gemma’s hand slowly. He looks her over critically. “Are you—Smythe?”

Gemma raises her eyebrows. “Yes,” she answers. “Did Darcy tell you?”

“No, you just—you look very like your father.”

She laughs. “Lupin said the same thing.”

Sirius makes a noise of approval. “When you were born, Andromeda said there was a big celebration—the Black family was there, except for us, of course.”

“Andromeda?” Gemma chuckles, running a hand through her hair. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in years. Mum was always rather fond of her—though not openly, of course. I’ve seen pictures of them as children together, but once she married Ted, I don’t think they actually ever spoke again.” Gemma turns to face Darcy. “Andromeda is Tonks’s mother, Darcy.”

“Have you met Tonks? I knew her when she was a baby—just a bit older that you, Darcy, isn’t she?”

“Er—yeah, I think so.” Darcy shrugs her shoulders, feeling suddenly out of place. She scans the cave, scrunching her nose at the rat bones around Buckbeak’s feet, and in another corner is a stack of old newspapers, and a very familiar looking magazine. “Sirius, what is that? Have you been reading that garbage?”

Sirius and Gemma quiet, looking over to Darcy. She stoops and picks up the copy of _Witch Weekly_. “I just wanted to see what they wrote,” he tells her defensively.

Gemma clears her throat. “Darcy was able to teach her first class the other day, Sirius. Did she tell you?”

“You did?”

“No—I mean…” Darcy blushes. “It wasn’t like I really taught the class… Professor Snape just—he let me do a little bit of it…”

But Sirius is interested anyway, and he finally starts on the food Darcy has brought him. He shares it with Darcy and Gemma; Gemma takes him up on his offer, leaving Sirius the better, richer foods while eating smaller things herself. Darcy doesn’t touch any of the food, instead sitting with her knees to her chest, detailing the lesson she’d helped teach and telling Sirius about how the first years had liked her.

Afterwards, Sirius and Gemma talk mostly. Sirius asks her about distant family members or other people he’d known in his youth, and Gemma is able to tell him what most of them are doing, or if they’re even alive. Sirius seems very nonchalant about many of those who’ve died, and it makes Darcy squirm, but Gemma doesn’t seem apologetic. Darcy is quiet for a long time, until she starts to yawn, and it’s then Gemma seems to remember she’s there. After getting the time, Sirius urges them to return to the village. Gemma sneaks out first to give Darcy a moment alone with Sirius.

“Nice girl,” Sirius muses, putting a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “She reminds me of Andromeda. You’d like her, Darcy.” His eyes meet hers again, and he squeezes her shoulder before lowering his hand. “Are you all right?”

Darcy looks at him for a long time. She wonders if she dare tell Sirius about the life Lupin had promised her—empty or not. “Do you think, if there is a war, that it’s stupid for me to think I could have a normal life?”

“Like what?”

She shifts uncomfortably on her feet. This is the last thing she wants to be discussing with Sirius right now, but she knows that he’ll be honest with her. “Remus wants to go into hiding after the school year ends—after the tournament ends,” she explains. “And I want to—sometimes running away sounds like the best thing in the world, and it’s not that I’m afraid—I mean, I am sometimes—but I’m so _tired_ , Sirius. I’m tired of always worrying and always being afraid and I—”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sirius urges her on. “Yes?”

“Hogwarts doesn’t feel like a home anymore,” she admits, wondering where all of this is coming from—buried someplace deep inside of her, for certain. “Not now that I know what a real home is like.” As Sirius considers her, searching for an answer, the words come pouring out of her. “Vernon hits me sometimes, you know? I’ve always been slightly afraid of being at Privet Drive, and then I came to Hogwarts and Harry wasn’t here and all I did was worry about him, and when Harry did come to Hogwarts, I was always afraid because Harry attracts trouble—don’t you see? But when I’m at Remus’s, I—I feel safe, like nothing can hurt me. I never have to wake up alone, and I know he would never raise a hand to me, and I never realized what a real home could be like until him.”

Sirius is quiet still, his eyes boring into hers.

“I want that,” she whispers. “I want that so badly for the rest of my life, and if I was anyone else but me—if I wasn’t a Potter, I could have that.”

“I want you to listen to me, Darcy,” he says, very quietly, his hands on her shoulders again. “Harry needs you right now. He’s in terrible danger, and once this tournament is over, I will have a weight off my chest, but don’t think this is the end of it.”

“We could take Harry with us,” Darcy breathes, forcing herself not to cry. “Remus loves Harry—he’d take Harry in with us, I know he would. We could all go into hiding together.”

“Your parents wanted a normal life, as well,” Sirius says, and his tone is slightly bitter, catching Darcy off guard. “And look how that worked out for them. Just because you go into hiding doesn’t mean the war stops. People will find you, friends will turn on you and friends will die.”

“None of my friends would ever betray us,” Darcy answers quickly, her chest swelling.

“Not even the daughter of a couple of Death Eaters?”

Darcy frowns, anger surging through her. “Gemma would never betray any of us,” she snaps. “She loves us—me, Harry, Remus, Hermione, Ron—and we love her. She’s one of us. Besides, you’re nothing like the rest of your family—and neither is Gemma. You just said yourself that she’s a nice girl.”

Sirius grinds his teeth, frustrated. But Darcy will not back down, especially not with Sirius assuming things about Gemma. “How well do you really know her?”

“Well enough that I trust her with my life.”

“Your parents trusted Wormtail with their life.”

“Gemma is _nothing_ like Wormtail.” Gemma, who had been her faithful friend throughout the year, long after Darcy and Carla had drifted apart, and even after she and Emily had. Gemma—who loves Lupin enough to help him through transformations, who loves Harry enough to cheer him on with Gryffindor colors during the tasks, who loves Hermione enough to let her fall asleep with her head in Gemma’s lap. _And me_ , Darcy thinks. _Gemma loves me, and she would never betray me the way Peter betrayed my parents._

When Sirius doesn’t answer, Darcy takes a step backwards. When he still doesn’t say anything, she slips out of the cave to find Gemma sitting on a rock, swinging her legs back and forth. She gets to her feet at the sight of Darcy.

“All right?” she asks, an almost knowing look on her face.

Darcy nods and walks up to her. “Yeah,” she sighs, giving Gemma a smile. “Great.”

The two of them make their way down the rocky slope, their wands held out in front of them to light the way. Darcy helps Gemma onto the road again, throwing an arm around her shoulders. Gemma grins, wrapping her arm around Darcy’s shoulders, as well, and they walk the rest of the way in silence.


	50. Chapter 50

“What are you thinking?”

Lupin smiles at her from over his wine glass, taking a long drink. “I’m thinking about how— _impossibly_ pretty you are,” he says slowly, his cheeks flushed from the drink. His smile widens at the sight of Darcy blushing madly. “And I’m thinking about how I’m going to take you to bed tonight.”

Darcy looks down into her glass, swirling the red wine within. “You’re a flatterer, Remus Lupin,” she teases, looking up into face and smiling. “Haven’t you learned that flattery gets you nowhere?”

“Is that so?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Flattery has gotten you into my bed, into my home—it has gotten me everywhere.” Lupin sighs contently, puts his glass on the table, and leans back into the sofa. “I never thought I’d be doing this, you know.”

“What? Thinking of the many ways you could take your old friend’s daughter to bed?”

Lupin laughs. “Yes, that too, I suppose,” he concedes. He looks Darcy over for a moment, his smile never fading. “I meant this—being here, with a pretty girl who shares my bed, who cooks me food, who gives me such sweet kisses. A pretty girl I do not deserve—my _girlfriend_.”

“I guess I am your girlfriend, aren’t I?” Darcy asks bashfully, blushing again.

“I would hope so. It would be very embarrassing if you weren’t, considering I’ve been thinking of you as my girlfriend for quite some time now.”

Darcy fights her smile, but it shows regardless. “Shut up, you.”

He chuckles, reaching for his glass again, placing a hand on her shin and keeping her legs in place across his lap. “It makes you uncomfortable,” he continues—not quite a question, but it makes Darcy squirm. Lupin drains his glass and holds it out for Darcy to refill. She pours the rest of the bottle into his cup, placing it once more on the floor beside her. “Would you prefer I call you something else?”

Darcy considers him, sitting up and pulling her legs from Lupin’s lap. She tucks them underneath her. “Once, I may have insisted you call me something else,” she says. “But I think I quite like the sound of it now. I like being your girlfriend.”

“I have to admit,” he replies, “that’s a relief.”

She smiles at him, finishing her glass of wine. “I miss this,” she whispers, looking into the crackling fire. A log pops, sparks swirling up into the chimney. “Sitting in your apartment in front of the fire, telling you my deepest, darkest secrets. The flirting, the little touches, the drinking. You’ve no idea what you did to me then.”

“I had no intention of making you fall in love with me,” Lupin says with a small smile. “When we met on the train, I certainly never had any wicked intentions. Even throughout the year, I never intended to bed a student—let alone you. Though, when you had come to me that night, when you kissed me so readily, when you told me you loved me—who was I to say no?”

Darcy runs a hand through her hair, suddenly feeling very warm. Lupin watches her closely, and just knowing that he’s likely trying to get her to blush again makes her blush. “It’s certainly unheard of,” she tells him breathlessly. “Did you think of me at night? After I’d leave you all by your lonesome?”

His smile widens and he bares his teeth, letting out another laugh. It’s his turn to blush—Darcy sees his cheeks turn slightly pink. “There was one night, you had too much to drink. I was grading papers, and you sat beside me on the sofa with your wine—the wine you so confidently asked for,” he recalls, and Darcy remembers with him. “You were so happy—a kind of happy I’d never seen from you. And you looked at me and smiled a real smile, and you laughed.” His eyes flick to Darcy’s lips. “ _That_ smile.”

Darcy is quiet, so full of love she could cry. It had been the warmest day in February that they’d known so far—the fire had made his room stifling, and Darcy was warm from all the wine he had allowed her.

“I thought about your laughter all that night,” he whispers. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I loved your laughter, how much I loved your smile.” Lupin looks at her for a long time, drinking in her appearance. “I still love those things. I love everything about you.”

She closes her eyes a moment, lost in his words. Words she has craved her entire life in some deep, dark, broken place in her heart—words now spoken, outloud, from the man she loves. Darcy opens her eyes again, wiping away her tears as Lupin continues to smile fondly at her. “No one has ever told me things like this before,” she sniffles. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” he answers, taking her hand loosely in his own. “You can’t have known many decent men, then.”

They both laugh quietly, and Darcy’s smile slowly fades. Lupin’s brow furrows, and Darcy licks her lips. “I am best loved from afar, I’ve learned. You’ve seen what they’ve written about you—because of me.”

“But I much prefer it when you’re close to me.” Lupin brings her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles lightly. “The bed is cold at night without you. It’s quiet here without you. Some nights I ache for you.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say, so jumbled is her brain. His words have clouded her thoughts, made her heart race. “I love you.”

To her surprise, Lupin laughs, pulling her closer to him. “How eloquent.”

“Please don’t leave me,” she murmurs, her tears beginning to fall again. Lupin wipes them away with his thumbs, holding her face in his hands. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I’m in love with you.”

“Say it again,” he whispers, his breath hot on her lips.

“I’m in love with you.” She barely gets the words out before he kisses her deeply, wrapped in each other.

Lupin doesn’t take her to bed that night—instead he reads to her for hours while she lays on his bare chest, peppering his chest and face and neck and jaw with soft kisses, sweet kisses, kisses that make him smile. He reads and she kisses him until they fall asleep on the sofa, the television so low it’s barely audible. Darcy wakes briefly in the dead of night to find herself still pressed close to him, her head against his chest, their legs tangled together. She shifts slightly, closing her eyes again as Lupin stirs. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead and snakes his free arm around her before falling asleep again.

_Home_.

* * *

“And then, I hit the Bludger that knocked out Templeton just before he was going to throw the Quaffle, and good thing I did—we got the Snitch and won by ten points!”

“Amazing,” Darcy laughs, clapping quietly for him. “I wish I could have seen you play.”

“Ah,” Ludo sighs dramatically, looking off into the distance with an almost wistful look in his eyes. “Perhaps one day—just for you, of course, Darcy—I’ll come out of retirement. Just for one game—just to play once more.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Bagman.” Darcy waves down a passing waiter and smiles, gesturing politely for another round. The Three Broomsticks is packed tonight, full of villagers trying to escape the heavy downpour of spring rain outside. The air is heavy with the scent of honeyed mead and cinnamon, multi-colored pipe smoke drifting about their heads. Half of the pub is engaged in a song coming from a wireless, the music loud, but nearly drowned by their voices, while Madam Rosmerta clicks around in her shimmering, turquoise heels, making small talk with her patrons and smiling at Darcy as she passes by. “You’ll have to get me into the Top Box for that game.”

“Without question, my dear,” Ludo replies, looking happily at the new tankard of ale sitting in front of him. “What about you? Do you fly as well as your brother?”

Darcy shakes her head, lowering her cup. “I’m dead awful on a broomstick,” she confesses, and Ludo raises his eyebrows, amused. “Harry’s talented enough for the both of us. It’s a shame you can’t see him play this year.”

“I saw your brother outfly a dragon,” he smiles. “I don’t think any Quidditch match could impress me anymore. How are you feeling about the third task?”

“Nervous, of course,” she answers truthfully. “But I’ve seen Harry do a lot of extraordinary things—not only this year, but… especially this year. I’m more confident about the third task.”

Ludo nods, finishing off his ale. “Just a couple more weeks and our champions will find out what that third task will entail,” he explains, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m rooting for Harry, you know. Everyone loves an underdog.” Ludo reaches across the table and grabs Darcy’s hand, a wild smile on his face. “The youngest winner of the Triwizard Tournament _ever_!”

Darcy gives his hand a squeeze, lifting her cup of mead in a toast. “To Harry.”

“To Harry,” he agrees, and the two of them drink. The mead is sweet on her tongue. “I enjoy you, Darcy.”

She nods courteously, in thanks. “I enjoy you, as well, Mr. Bagman.”

There’s the scraping of chairs and benches and raucous laughter as people begin to stand, dancing around to the music, drunk and uncaring. Ludo has to raise his voice for Darcy to hear him. They lean towards each other, grinning from ear to ear. “We chose the perfect night for dinner, didn’t we?” he asks with a laugh.

“It seems so.”

The atmosphere has put all of her fears and worries at ease—that, and the last few weekends that she’s spent with Lupin have done something to lift her spirits. They’ve spoken no more of going into hiding or leaving behind her current life, but instead have joked more and laughed more and smiled more. She’s enjoyed the time spent with him the most, has enjoyed playing the part of dutiful housewife, cooking him meals and dragging him to markets and shops, letting him carry her to bed like a blushing bride at night, kissing her all over until his scruff tickles her and makes her giggle and squirm.

One Sunday morning, with her back pressed against his chest and Lupin’s heart racing against her skin as he had taken her with the ferocity Darcy lives for sometimes, he’d sunken his teeth into her right shoulder. Darcy had gasped, not having expected such a primal gesture, and Lupin had tensed and frozen, still inside of her. “I’m sorry,” he’d whispered quickly, kissing the place he’d bitten. “I just—I didn’t mean—”

Her chest heaving, Darcy had glanced over her shoulder at him. “ _No_ ,” she panted, a surge of pleasure running through her. “Don’t apologize.” After a moment of looking at each other with their eyebrows knitted together, Darcy had broken the silence. “Do it again.”

And he had, his teeth leaving deep marks on her skin, the pain delighting her, and making her cry out.

“Darcy,” Ludo says again over the clamor, bringing her back to reality. Darcy lowers her fingers from the place on her neck where Lupin’s teeth had marked her. She clears her throat and smiles at Ludo again, the noise of the pub coming back to her. “I feel very terrible about the Yule Ball, truly. Perhaps we could try once more?”

“I’m sorry?”

Ludo gets to his feet, pulling Darcy up by the hand. He leads her to the group of dancing patrons, and Darcy stumbles through the crowd.

“Mr. Bagman,” she protests feebly. “You know I’m not really a dancer—”

“Nonsense, my darling—this isn’t the Yule Ball,” he jokes, placing a firm hand on her waist and indicating she rest her free hand on his shoulder. “No one here seems to be a dancer, either.”

She’s reluctant at first, but as the music continues and everyone dances beside them, Ludo twirls her around and dips her, lifts her and makes her laugh. Each time she spins, her deep red hair hits him in the face and makes him chuckle. Others applaud them, some join in, taking Darcy’s hand for only a moment to spin her around, making her dizzy, but breathless with excitement. Only when the music begins to slow does she have a moment to catch her breath, clapping along with the others as Ludo dances with an older woman with hair as white as snow, a pink tint to her cheeks. She exchanges a few whispers with the young wizard at her side, and they both chuckle when a drunken old man crashes to the floor to the left of them.

Darcy feels someone’s hand come down on the nape of her neck, and for a moment assumes it to be Ludo. She turns around quickly, a smile on her face as the hand falls from her neck, and it quickly becomes an awkward smile. “Professor Snape—what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he answers curtly, his dark eyes surveying the scene. “The Headmaster has requested that you join him in his office.” When his eyes land on a fixed point, Darcy glances over her shoulder to see him staring at Ludo Bagman, who’s finally noticed them, walking towards them briskly. “Ludo.”

“Severus,” Ludo says jovially, clapping Snape on the shoulder. “Come to join the festivities?”

“No,” Snape replies, placing a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “I’m here to bring Darcy back up to the castle. The Headmaster has requested a private word with her.”

“Not now, surely!” Ludo frowns. “I’m sure Dumbledore would understand if she’s a bit late, wouldn’t he? Stay, Severus—just one dance—”

“No, absolutely not—Darcy, come.”

“Just one dance, I insist,” Ludo pleads, putting a hand on the small of Darcy’s back and pushing her into Snape’s front. “One dance and she’s all yours, my friend.”

“No, Mr. Bagman, really—it’s fine—”

“Ludo, this is—this is ridiculous—”

“Mr. Bagman—really—”

“Ludo, Darcy needs to come with me—”

Darcy shuffles closer, uncomfortably close to Snape. She looks up into his tense face, his lips pursed. Sighing heavily, accepting defeat as Ludo presses her still closer to Snape, she puts a hand on his shoulder and takes his hand in her free one. Snape’s face is stony, completely impassive and unreadable. “Why does Professor Dumbledore want to see me?” she asks him, his feet moving slowly, leading her. The entire situation makes her heart race— _this can’t be real. This must be some kind of a joke. I hope no one I know is watching._

“It’s beyond me.”

“Stop it,” Darcy tells him. “I know that you know.”

“The Headmaster has been hearing all sorts of delightful rumors,” Snape begins, looking down at her curiously.

“What sorts of rumors?” she asks again, her stomach twisting.

“You’re unhappy here.”

Darcy curses Sirius silently in her head, not wanting to reveal to Snape that she’s been in contact with him. But she should have realized Sirius likely would tell Dumbledore everything she said—and maybe she’s known it all along, and that’s why she’s been so hesitant to actually tell him everything. “I’m not unhappy,” Darcy says quickly. “I’m just—having a difficult time adjusting, I suppose.”

It’s strange to feel Snape’s hand on her waist—not a confident touch like Ludo’s or a loving one like Lupin’s. It’s a foreign touch—cold and unnatural and hesitant. An unwelcome touch. “Let me guess,” he drawls, a sneer creeping on his face. “Life at Hogwarts isn’t what you imagined without the werewolf at your side?”

“And whose fault is that?” Darcy snaps, attempting to pull away from him, but Snape grips her hand tighter, keeping her in place. “Let go of me, Professor Snape.”

“I have allowed you to teach classes, have given you responsibilities, have let you confide in me things that would otherwise make me vomit,” he continues, his face very close to hers. “And you are still ungrateful—”

“Professor Snape—”

“What more would you have of me? What more would you ask of me that I have not already provided to you out of the goodness of my heart—?”

“ _Professor_ —”

“What?”

Darcy exhales loudly. “The song is over.”

Snape stiffens, looking around to find everyone watching them. The wireless has been turned down, no more than static. He releases her hand immediately, the tavern now quieter than normal. Darcy jerks away from him, his hand falling away from her waist and back to his side.

“And for the record,” she snaps, drawing the attention of the patrons once more, “he is ten times the man you will ever be—gentle and compassionate and kind. When have you ever been any of those things to me, least of all _kind_?”

Ludo Bagman approaches her, putting a hand on her back. He gives her a gentle push towards the door and Snape follows, his fingers clasping on her shoulder again. Darcy whirls around.

“I _don’t_ need an escort!” she hisses. “I can get back to the castle myself!”

Just as she pushes the door open and the bells tinkle and the music starts up again, she hears Snape speak. “Haven’t you learned yet what it means to be with a werewolf? Haven’t those letters and articles taught you anything?” he murmurs, just barely audible over the loud music. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“And you think you do?” Darcy scoffs, tears building in her eyes. She steps close to him, chest heaving. “At least Remus has never once forgotten that I am not my mother.”

“How could I ever forget you’re not your mother?” Snape spits at her. “Every time you open your mouth, arrogance rushes out of you just like it did with your father. The way you strut about Hogwarts, the way you speak without ever giving thought to what you’re going to say, the way you presume to know everything—”

“I hate you.” It’s a whisper—words that no one else hears but Snape. They look at each other for a long time, and when Snape has nothing to say to her, Darcy storms out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

She doesn’t bother going to Dumbledore—doesn’t dare walk into his study with her eyes swollen from crying. But when she doesn’t go to his office, instead returning to her own room, Dumbledore takes it upon himself to seek her out. He knocks at the door and Darcy groans, opening it and blushing at the sight of the Headmaster.

“Professor Dumbledore,” she says hastily, allowing him in. “I’m sorry. Professor Snape told me you wanted to speak to me and I—” Her voice trails off as Dumbledore peruses her living space, looking carefully at all the photographs that cover bookshelves and the mantle and counters, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’ll be thankful when you’re older that you took so many photographs. Perhaps one day,” Dumbledore finally says, turning to face her with his back to the fireplace and his hands held behind his back, “you will have enough photographs of your own to make an album for your children.” He chuckles softly to himself, holding up a picture of she and Harry, looking very much alike. Dumbledore replaces it after a moment. “I like that one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore sighs, looking around before seating himself on the sofa. “May I trouble you for a drink?” he asks politely, holding his hands in his lap. “I’m sure I would be safe in assuming there is some firewhisky around here somewhere?”

This makes Darcy smile weakly, and she obliges him, pouring a second glass for herself. She sits at the very end of the sofa, crossing one leg over her other, waiting for Dumbledore to speak again while taking small sips of her drink.

“Professor Snape has just been to see me,” Dumbledore says after a long silence, looking exasperated. Darcy feels the shame welling up in her and she looks away, up at one of the photographs of she and Lupin. “What happened in The Three Broomsticks, Darcy?”

Darcy shifts uncomfortably. She’s sure Snape’s told Dumbledore an accurate portrayal of what happened—she’s sure that Dumbledore is aware Snape had riled her up knowingly. But she’s too ashamed to repeat the story outloud to him. “I want to go home,” she tells him flatly, looking into Dumbledore’s eyes again. “I don’t want to be with Professor Snape anymore. I want to go home.”

Dumbledore strokes his long, white beard, infuriatingly calm. “And where is home to you, Darcy? Surely not Privet Drive—I know that you would never return there if you didn’t have to. And I am saddened by the fact that you no longer consider Hogwarts your home—I hope the fault does not lie with me. I’m sorry if your experience here has not been what you’ve expected.”

Darcy tenses. “Not what I expected? Sir, I mean no offense, but—Hogwarts feels more like a prison than a home some days. Getting out of bed is hard some mornings, and with everything that’s happened here these last few years—” She stops abruptly, not wanting to tell Dumbledore everything, afraid that if she were to start, she wouldn’t be able to stop. “Do you know much Muggle poetry, Professor?”

He raises his eyebrows, the corners of his lips turning upwards slightly. “No, I’m afraid that I don’t know much Muggle poetry. Are you going to indulge me? I had no idea that you were fond of it.”

She nods, leaning back in the sofa and looking into the fireplace again. “Remus used to read Muggle poetry to me, all those times we had dinner together. Sometimes he still does.” Darcy smiles to herself, remembering the marked up book he’d given her for Christmas—a sweet gesture, truly. Gemma had teased Lupin about it when she’d seen it laying on Darcy’s bed just a week ago. “There’s a poem that I like. Would you like to hear it, sir?”

“Absolutely.” Dumbledore sets his cup down and sits up straighter.

“‘The rain to the wind said, you push and I’ll pelt’,” she begins. Lupin had always been fond of this one. “‘They so smote the garden bed, that the flowers actually knelt, and lay lodged—but not dead. I know how the flowers felt’.”

They’re quiet for a long time afterwards, and Darcy feels like crying. “It is human to feel, Darcy,” Dumbledore whispers. “It is human to feel anger, grief, pain. It shows that you have a good heart, just like your mother did.”

“I am tired of feeling those things, sir,” she answers, taking a deep breath. “I want to go home, where I feel I can breathe again. I’m happy there.”

“And where is home to you?”

_He wants me to say it_. “With Remus.” Darcy hesitates just for a moment. “I want that life. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I want to be able to have it before…”

Dumbledore leans forward slightly. “Yes?”

Darcy considers him, finishing the firewhisky in her glass. “Before a war comes.” And then, feeling even bolder, she says, “Sir, I think Barty Crouch put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire.”

“Yes, Remus told me,” Dumbledore replies. “I want you to know that the matter is being looked into. And I regret to inform you that I must politely decline your resignation.”

She frowns. “What?” Darcy asks flatly. “What do you mean you politely decline? Do you have any idea how badly I’ve struggled with this decision in the past few months?”

“I must insist that you stay with Professor Snape.”

Darcy’s heart thunders in her chest. “No,” she says again. “ _No_. I don’t want to be with Professor Snape anymore.”

“You are free to continue doing as you have been doing,” Dumbledore continues, ignoring her statement completely. “You may visit him as you please—and you know what, Darcy? I am not a cruel man, so I will allow Remus to visit you here at the castle once a week, is that fair? I don’t think that will draw much attention to him. But I would ask that you remain as Professor Snape’s assistant until the end of the year.”

“A stone cage,” Darcy mutters, furious. “I’m a prisoner.”

“I would like to remind you that you were given the choice to come back.” Dumbledore gets to his feet. “You made a commitment. You agreed to my terms, just as I agreed to yours.” He walks himself to the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, his tone softening. “And Darcy, I want no more of this arguing with Professor Snape—and I know that the blame does not rest solely on you. Good night.”

Dumbledore lets himself out, shutting the portrait behind him, leaving Darcy on the sofa with her back turned to him.


	51. Chapter 51

The following weeks test her in ways Darcy has never known.

While Gemma persists with the question that Darcy doesn’t have an answer for (“What would Dumbledore really do if you left? Drag you back kicking and screaming?”), Emily has a different answer. Darcy had written her the night she’d spoken with Dumbledore, dramatically detailing the way the walls of her stone cage feel tight and constricting when she walks down the corridors, how for the first time in her life, she had decided to do something for the sake of her own happiness and that request was denied her. Emily’s reply had frustrated her so that Darcy burned the letter immediately afterwards.

_If Dumbledore wants you to stay, you should stay. Something is going on, and until we know what exactly it is, you’re safest at Hogwarts._

Worse, she hasn’t even told Lupin about their conversation. When Max had brought back Emily’s letter, she almost sent him right off again with a letter to Lupin, but she tore it up and let Max sleep in her room that night instead. For months, he’d been asking her to stay with him instead of returning to Hogwarts and for months she’d insisted she had to go back. Lupin had nearly begged her to run away, to go into hiding with him, and she had declined every time—out of fear and out of love for her brother. And with everything that happened between her and Professor Snape in Hogsmeade that one evening, Darcy had wanted nothing more than to leave—to finally get out of Hogwarts and live out whatever days remained her with Lupin—to have that life until the war comes and takes it all away from her.

And Dumbledore had denied her that. And wasn’t that what she’d been afraid of prior to even accepting his offer? Afraid that she would become a hostage, that she would not be allowed to leave. Sure, she could roam the grounds as she pleased and no one was mistreating her like at Privet Drive, and she’s free to go down to Hogsmeade whenever she wants and she’s never been denied a visit to Lupin’s home. Even Sirius has been allowed to remain close by, a great comfort to Darcy despite the strain on their relationship. In fact, Darcy doesn’t even know why their relationship is so strained, but thinks it may have something to do with her not being completely honest around him and the fact that she’s fucking his best friend. One of those things.

But she’s too afraid to tell Lupin any of those things. She’s afraid that revealing to him she does want to stay with him, and Dumbledore won’t let her. She’s afraid of Lupin realizing there will be no life with her, afraid that he’ll wake up one morning and finally think to himself— _it’s not worth it._ Yet even as she thinks of it, Darcy can’t help but to ponder Gemma’s words. If she and Lupin did go into hiding, Dumbledore wouldn’t need to know exactly where. But Harry would know—and would Harry keep their location a secret if Dumbledore came asking?

Though she had told Lupin that Dumbledore was willing to allow him to visit the castle once a week. The first week had been nerve wracking for reasons unknown, and Darcy had led him through the corridors at night, holding it hand tight. As soon as the portrait had closed behind them, he’d kissed her hard, lifting her shirt over her head and backing her towards the bedroom. It had been an awkward night, humiliating—there had been a knock at the door as Darcy slid up and down him.

“Ignore it,” he’d growled, and Darcy didn’t need him to tell her that.

However, things had been made more humiliating when she’d heard Hermione’s voice calling Darcy’s name just beyond the bedroom. Darcy had rolled off of him before Hermione could catch them in the middle of things, wrapped a sheet around herself, and opened the bedroom door just a crack.

“Do you need something, Hermione?” Darcy had asked, trying to sound patient.

Hermione had only blinked in surprise. “Darcy,” she’d whispered, her eyes taking in the sheet around Darcy’s naked body. “Do you have someone in there?”

Darcy had raised her eyebrows, nodding shortly.

“What about—” Hermione lowers her voice, barely a whisper. “What about Professor Lupin?”

“It _is_ Professor Lupin, Hermione,” Darcy replied, and Hermione’s cheeks had turned bright red, averting eye contact. “Now, is anyone dead, dying, or dangerously ill or wounded?”

“No.”

“Then come back tomorrow. Goodnight.” Darcy had closed the door in Hermione’s face and she waited until she was sure they were alone again.

“Do students often just walk right into your private room?” Lupin had mused, smiling slightly.

“Only the cute ones.”

He hadn’t laughed, only gritted his teeth. “You’re mine.”

Darcy had crawled back on top of him, kissing his chest softly. “I’m yours.”

“Again.” His fingertips had traced the sharp line of her jaw, down her throat.

“I’m yours.” Darcy kissed his chest again and his hand has retracted as she kissed down his stomach, her lips touching the most recent scar. “I’m yours.” She’d kissed his thighs, hardened with muscle. “I’m yours.”

Falling asleep beside Lupin in her own bed seemed something out of a dream. She had combed her fingers through his graying hair while he slept, moonlight spilling in through the open window to illuminate half of his face. Darcy had cried quietly that night, touching his face, kissing him on the lips, eventually falling asleep with her head on his chest, her tears spilling onto his skin.

Somedays Darcy tells herself that she was just worked up that night and drunk and Dumbledore knew that, which is why he declined her resignation. Of course she doesn’t _really_ hate Professor Snape—or does she? Snape, who she’d defended, who she’d stood up for and fought for, who had been kind to her during classes and stopped students from bullying her, who had patiently taught her things about brewing potions she’d never known before, who had danced with her in sight of others. Snape, who mocked her and Lupin to her face, who bullied other students—Harry, Hermione, Neville.

Darcy had told Snape that evening in Hogsmeade that he’s never been kind to her, and she knows it was a lie. Snape has been kind to her—always kind in his own way, which isn’t saying much. But as of late—since she and Dumbledore’s conversation—Snape _has_ been kind to her by regular standards. He’s asked her _questions_ —asked how she’s feeling, how she’s doing, if she’d like to do a demonstration for older classes. He’s fixed her plates during meals, especially upon seeing her sitting quietly in front of an empty one. And perhaps the nicest thing he’s done in her eyes is keep her away from Karkaroff when he approaches her with his greasy smile, and Moody when they hear his wooden leg clunking on the floor just around the corner.

And there had been one night, when Darcy had felt very alone, that she brought classwork and a bottle of wine with her down to Snape’s office, and while she drank and graded homework, he took inventory of his stores and did his own work, listening to her ramble drunkenly. She had had far too much wine for her own good and Snape knew it. He’d walked her slowly back to her apartments that night, and Darcy had held onto his arm tight, finding comfort in the silence. It took Darcy a minute to remember the password, but she got it eventually, stumbling over the threshold and lying on the sofa and immediately falling asleep. She’d woken up with a pillow under her head and a blanket thrown over her that she didn’t remember grabbing beforehand.

She hadn’t even told Harry what had happened. Darcy still can’t find it in her bring it up around him, ashamed of the fact that she’d considered leaving him for another life, a better life—with another man.

_It’s better if he doesn’t know. It’s better if he doesn’t have to worry about me._

Darcy takes a long pull off her cigarette as the front door opens and closes behind her. Lupin kisses her cheek, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her to him, her back pressed close to his front. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Lupin sighs, releasing her. “Dinner’s ready.” He takes the cigarette from her lips, taking a pull off of it himself before flicking it away. “Come inside.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

He hesitates, giving her shoulder a squeeze before leaving her outside.

_Are you proud of me, dad? Are you proud of me, mum? I, who picked up the pieces of our broken family—I, who made the choice at five-years-old to care for Harry, not knowing where that choice would lead me? This is all I will ever be—Harry’s protector, and I was stupid to think I’d ever be anything else._

Darcy lights another cigarette.

_I should have died in that crib. I should have died with my mother, with my father. Death would have been preferable to living in a cage my whole life. I am nothing._

When she finally does re-enter the cottage, it’s well after Lupin’s finished his dinner. He places his plate in the sink, looking over his shoulder at Darcy. She takes a look at her plate, still empty on the table, surrounded by the food he’d made for her. She finds she isn’t hungry anymore, and the only sound for a few moments as she stands there with her arms around herself is the music that floats into the kitchen area from the bedroom.

Lupin walks over to her, taking her wrists and lowering them, taking one of her hands in his own and moving her other to his shoulder. Darcy looks up at him, unsure as his feet move, leading her in a slow dance step with his free hand on the small of her back. He leans in to kiss her, but Darcy pulls away, her hands falling to her sides.

“I don’t deserve your kisses,” she whispers, hugging herself again and looking down at her feet. “There are other women who do, but certainly not me.”

A crease appears between his eyebrows, and he frowns. “I don’t want another woman.”

“You will,” she rasps. “One day, you will. She’ll be able to give you what you want. She’ll be able to run away with you.”

“Stop it,” Lupin says, firmly. “I love you. It will always be you.”

Darcy runs a hand through her hair and starts to cry—tears fall from her eyes quick and hard, and she falls into his chest, his arms keeping her from dropping to her knees. “I should have died,” she cries. “I should have died that night—I never wanted this—”

She can feel his racing heart against her cheek, his fingers threading through her hair, his lips against the top of her head. “I know,” he murmurs against her.

“The first war took— _everything_ from me and I was only five,” she says, her voice shaky and hoarse. “What will the next one take from me?”

“The war is not upon us yet,” he answers, resting his cheek atop her head. “We still have time. We could have months, years—”

“It’s not enough time.” Darcy closes her eyes against his shirt, wanting to feel his arms around her forever. “It will never be enough time.”

* * *

The heavy door to the Astronomy Tower closes from down below. Looking down to the lower level, she sees Gemma’s dark hair as she begins to climb the stairs. “Darcy, what are you doing up here?”

“Who told you I was up here?”

Gemma waits to answer until she reaches the top of the stairs, where she stays. Darcy looks forward again and the down at her feet, the night wind whipping her hair around her face, pulling her closer to the edge of the tower. “Hermione told me you’d taken a fancy to sneaking up here,” Gemma confesses. “She also told me she nearly walked in on you and Lupin in the midst of a wrestling match.”

“I’m not really in the mood for your jokes, Gemma.”

“You rarely are these days,” Gemma retorts, quietly enough that Darcy can pretend to ignore it. “Step back from the edge, Darcy. You’re making me nervous.”

Darcy inhales deeply, taking three steps backwards just to appease her.

“Anyway,” Gemma continues warily. “I just wanted to tell you Happy Easter before I left. Madam Pomfrey’s been kind enough to give me the weekend and the rest of the holidays off, but I’ll only be working more at St Mungo’s. Heard Lupin’s coming by for Easter this weekend.”

“He’s coming tomorrow, to stay the night. He’s going to celebrate with us Sunday.”

“That’s great.” Gemma clears her throat, taking a few steps closer, her footsteps ringing throughout the tower. “I’ve been working on my final research paper. I thought maybe if I gave it to you, you could have Lupin look over it before I do anything with it.”

“Yeah,” Darcy answers, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just leave it in my room. I’ll show it to him.”

“All right, well—I’ll see you after the holidays.”

Darcy sighs. “Gemma—wait.” Her footsteps stop, and Darcy turns. Gemma’s looking at her with raised eyebrows. She looks so beautiful, so arrogantly so, and Darcy burns with envy for a moment—not just a yearning to have such effortless beauty, but to have a family to return to for the holidays, to be so content with her life and her position, to be so confident in herself.

“What are you doing up here, Darcy?” Gemma asks her quietly. “Come walk me down to Hogsmeade. We can get a drink before I go home.”

There’s a heavy silence that hangs over them. The wind picks up, howling. Then Darcy sighs heavily. “No, thank you. Not tonight.” She turns back around to face the grounds. “Just—Happy Easter.”

Darcy inches closer to the edge again once Gemma leaves her, her toes to the edge of the tower. She wonders what it would feel like to fall all that way—the wind threading through her hair like Lupin’s fingers do so often, if the landing would be so hard that it would kill her instantly or leave her completely broken and left to suffer for a few moments. She wonders how long her body would lie there until someone stumbled across her. She wonders what it would feel like to not have to feel anymore—to not suffer anymore, to never have to worry again. _If there was pain at the end of the fall, at least it would be short-lived pain. I would be dead, but at least I would be free. Vernon could no longer hit me, Aunt Petunia may even shed a tear for me. I would be going home to my mother and my father. I could apologize to Mrs. Duncan._

She nearly falls backwards then, taking hasty steps away from the edge, her heart racing. _I am not even brave enough to do that_. Darcy clutches onto the iron railing that follows the spiral staircase down, breathing heavily as the wind continues to grab hold of her hair. She sinks down to the ground, flattening her hair as best she can.

* * *

“ _Share_ , Ron. They’re for all of you.”

Hermione thanks Lupin for Harry and Ron (not that Ron could thank him with his mouth stuffed with chocolate). He nods in reply, looking down at Darcy, seated on the floor at his feet, and smiling. Darcy gives him a polite smile in return.

“Oh, man—look what mum sent—”

Hedwig soars into Darcy’s bedroom and drops three packages in Ron’s lap before leaving, as well as a letter. Ron hands them out accordingly—one for himself, one for Harry, and one for Hermione, but it’s all wrong. They’re Easter eggs (something Darcy normally looks forward to), and Harry’s and Ron’s are massive and filled with candy, while Hermione’s is the size of a chicken egg. Darcy pulls her knees to her chest as Hermione meets her eyes from across the coffee table for a moment.

“Ron, your mum doesn’t read _Witch Weekly_ , does she?” Hermione asks, looking sad about her small egg.

“Sometimes,” Ron answers loudly, his mouth full of toffee. “For the recipes.”

“Oh,” Hermione frowns. She looks at Darcy again, opening her egg. While the boys are distracted with their sweets, Hermione holds out her egg to Darcy. “Would you like some?”

“Oh, no,” Darcy says, forcing herself to smile and waving an impatient hand. “It’s yours.”

“Listen to this, Darcy,” Harry interrupts quickly. When Darcy turns to look at him on the sofa, his eyes are skimming over the contents of the letter delivered with the eggs. “Percy says Mr. Crouch is taking a well-deserved break. He says Crouch is sending him regular owls with instructions for him, but he hasn’t actually seen him.”

It’s quiet for a moment as they all digest this. “He’s sure that it’s Barty Crouch sending these letters?” Lupin asks, exchanging a look with Darcy.

Harry shrugs and passes him the letter. “Says he recognizes his handwriting.”

Lupin looks the letter over, his brow furrowing. When he gives Harry the letter back and doesn’t speak anymore about the matter, Darcy doesn’t either. She’s quite glad when Harry, Hermione, and Ron leave a little while later, so they can discuss the matter further.

“What if it isn’t Barty Crouch?” Darcy asks excitedly, taking a seat on the sofa now that Harry’s gone. “What if it’s someone else entirely? What if he’s really been Imperiused?”

“If he is Imperiused, I can’t see why,” Lupin says, grinding his jaw and thinking. “The instructions clearly aren’t anything malicious—I don’t think Percy Weasley would ever carry out anything that would do harm to Harry.”

“We have to tell Dumbledore.”

“I agree,” Lupin nods. “But Dumbledore is not the Ministry. Many will listen to him, but he hasn’t the authority to launch an investigation on the whereabouts of Barty Crouch. And even if Crouch put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire, there isn’t anything that can be done. He still must compete—isn’t that what Dumbledore said? And Harry’s already made it through two tasks—what’s one more? One more task and it’s over.”

“There’s something missing.” Darcy leans back in her seat, chewing on her lip. “ _Why_ Barty Crouch?”

“Listen, leave this to me. I’ll talk to Dumbledore about it.” He looks at her for a little while, smiling a small smile. “Hermione tells me you’ve been spending lots of time atop the Astronomy Tower.”

Darcy scowls, getting to her feet and pacing about the room. “Hermione needs to stop telling people that.”

“She’s only worried about you,” he tells her gently, his eyes following her as she continues to pace. “I don’t like the idea of you alone up there. What if you fall?”

She runs a hand through her hair, sighing a sigh that sounds much more like a growl. “I wouldn’t actually do it.”

“Do what, Darcy?” Lupin whispers, narrowing his eyes, his face falling. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and it causes Darcy physical pain to hear it. “That’s not funny.”

Darcy stops her pacing, looking at him with her arms crossed, realizing far too late that she’s said the wrong thing. She blushes furiously, but doesn’t look away from him. “Do you see me laughing?”

Lupin stands slowly. “Don’t joke about that.” He takes a few steps closer to her, taking her hands in his, pulling her to him. “Would you like to come home with me for the rest of the holidays?”

She sighs, allowing him to kiss her forehead before she nods. “Yes—yes.”

They leave Hogwarts together almost immediately without saying a word to anyone else. Lupin keeps a tight grip on her hand all the way down to Hogsmeade, and once able to, Disapparates with her quickly. The rest of the day is spent in bed, but there are no shy smiles this time, no photographs being taken, no sweet kisses in the most sensitive places—instead, they make violent love, greedy and angry. Neither of them utter a coherent word—the only sounds are the slapping of flesh against flesh, their ragged panting and stifled moans. Lupin bites down on her right shoulder so hard that his teeth draw blood and Darcy cries out in surprise and pleasure, but doesn’t tell him to stop. Darcy lets him use her as he pleases, begging the anger and grief and pain to leave her with each hard stroke.

And when it finally ends, and Darcy is left lying on the bed naked, sore, tired, her shoulder bleeding from where he’d bitten her, and still angry and grieving. She can hear the water pounding against the tiles of the shower, but she makes no move to get up. When Lupin does come to bed afterwards, he fusses over her shoulder, giving her soft kisses where he’d bitten her—hating himself for it, always hating himself, always disgusted with what he’s done.

“Don’t worry about it,” she whispers, closing her eyes and pulling the blankets up to her chin. “It’s fine.”

Lupin pauses, looking down at her. Darcy closes her eyes, but can still feel his eyes on her. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, really.”

“No,” he says, and Darcy opens her eyes again.

Darcy rolls over, her back to him. Lupin kisses her shoulder blade and she sighs. “I wouldn’t really have done it.”

He smooths her hair back and kisses her again, just behind her ear. When he speaks, he breathes it into her ear, making chills run up and down her spine. “Marry me, Darcy. Let me take care of you.”

She closes her eyes once more, to cry silently against her pillow. Her heart races and her breath quickens. _Why does he have to ask me now?_ “I can’t.” She doesn’t know if she’s ever had such a hard time saying two simple words.

Lupin doesn’t answer, resting his forehead against her shoulder and sighing. Darcy feels him shift on the bed, sliding off the mattress and dressing quietly. When he leaves her alone in the bedroom, closing the door behind him, Darcy feels it’s safe to cry in earnest.


	52. Chapter 52

The rest of the holidays are uncomfortable. They eat in silence for most of their meals—sometimes Lupin will look up and smile weakly at her, but Darcy can tell his heart isn’t really in it. He stops taking her to bed at night, leaving Darcy to fall asleep by herself in bed while he dozes on the sofa, watching television, only sneaking into bed during the wee hours of the night. Lupin never protests when she curls up to his back, never protests when she places soft kisses on his shoulders, never protests when she holds him. But Darcy wants him to be the one to hold her, to kiss her, to love her. He’s barely kissed her since the night they’d returned to his cottage, hasn’t touched her, hasn’t fucked her, hasn’t shown any interest in even doing any of those things with her. He leaves her at home while he runs errands and searches for a job, reads to himself instead of outloud, and when Darcy cooks him meals, all she receives is a flat, “It’s good.”

So on the last day of her holiday, Darcy decides—lying awake and alone in bed at three o’clock in the morning—that she will not leave him like this. She won’t leave without a proper kiss, without an ‘ _I love you’_. Lupin doesn’t even have to fuck her, she thinks, as long as he tells her how much he loves her. That’s all she wants. Surely his feelings towards her haven’t changed over the course of a few days, but to not hear it from him is torture. Darcy considers telling him what Dumbledore had told her about staying at Hogwarts, but finally decides against it, not wanting Lupin to leave her to find someone who could give him everything he wants. _That’s selfish_ , she tells herself, sighing.

_He didn’t really mean it_ , Darcy tells herself. _He just said it to make me feel better. He just said it to hear what I’d say. He just said it because he was afraid I’d fling myself off the Astronomy Tower. He didn’t mean it._

But the memory of it has been replaying in her head the past few days every so often—whenever she’s alone in the shower or lying in bed at night, she can almost hear him asking her to marry him again, his voice a whisper in her ear. It makes goosebumps rise up and down her arms and her stomach churns at the thought. It makes her dizzy, imagining getting married, something she’d given so much thought to when she was a little girl.

Darcy gets out of bed quietly, her bare feet taking her across the bedroom to the door. She checks her watch, squinting through the darkness to see the time. She can’t quite see the exact hour, but she knows it’s late—likely around three or four in the morning. When she opens the door, as quietly as possible, Lupin’s asleep on the sofa with the fire still burning in the hearth, sitting up and slouched against the cushions. Darcy watches him for a few seconds, licking her lips and wriggling out of her pants, leaving herself clad in just an oversized shirt and her underwear.

She tip toes to the sofa, smiling down at him. His shaggy hair falls in his eyes, a pout on his lips, his eyebrows very slightly knitted together. Darcy settles herself very carefully in his lap, one knee on either side of him, and Lupin wakes with a start, his hands instinctively going to her hips. It feels so nice to have his hands on her again that Darcy almost cries when he lowers his hands back to his sides.

“Darcy, what are you doing?” he whispers, allowing her to drape her arms around his neck. Lupin gives his head a shake, getting the hair out of his eyes. “What time is it?”

“I love you.” Darcy ignores him completely, looking into his eyes before leaning in to kiss him. She pulls away when he doesn’t kiss her back. Resting her forehead against his, she continues. “I told Professor Dumbledore I wanted to leave Hogwarts—that I wanted to be with you.”

His hands return to her waist, lifting her shirt slightly to brush his thumbs against her skin. “But he wants you to stay with Harry,” he whispers.

“Yes.” Darcy sits up straighter in his lap, combing the back of his hair with her fingers. She hesitates, shifting in his lap again, growing more uncomfortable. When she opens her mouth again, the words spill out of her. “Professor Snape and I got into a fight and—”

“Again?” Lupin asks, frowning. His eyes are heavy with sleep, his thumbs still tracing lazy circles on her hips. “You didn’t tell me that. What about this time?”

“Well…” Darcy opens and closes her mouth for a moment, thankful for the darkness that hides the dull flush creeping up her neck. When next she speaks, its breathlessly, shamefully. “Don’t make me say it, Remus.”

His eyes rove her face, shaking his head. “Me?”

Darcy feels the tears prickle painfully in her eyes, but she doesn’t confirm nor deny it. “He told me Professor Dumbledore wanted to see me, but once we fought, I—I just went back to my room. He upset me so much—and Professor Dumbledore came to me and I told him I didn’t want to be with Snape anymore.” She touches his face, biting down on her bottom lip. When he doesn’t respond to her touch, she lowers her hand. “I told him I wanted to go home.”

Lupin’s brow furrows, his fingertips whispering over her bare thighs. Darcy inhales sharply, glancing down at his hands for a split second before looking back into his face. She wishes he would say something, anything to fill the silence, but just his touch makes up for it. His hands, just resting on her thighs, makes her heart pump harder.

“I know I shouldn’t have argued with—”

His hands leap to her face, cutting her off with a bruising kiss, messy and breathy. He breaks it to look at her curiously, and Darcy kisses his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, starved for his affection. “Did you really say that?” he asks again, his chest heaving with each kiss Darcy gives him.

“Yes.”

Lupin kisses the crook of her neck before lifting her shirt over her head, throwing it to the ground. He places hungry kisses down her throat, on the divet between her collarbones, on her breasts and shoulders. Darcy almost protests when he lifts his head to look at her again. “I—I don’t know what to say,” he breathes, laughing softly in disbelief, and kissing her lips again, but this time it’s slow and gentle and almost hesitant.

Darcy remembers the first time, just about a year ago now. He had taken his time with her then—it had been the most intimate thing she’d ever experienced, to be stripped so bare and vulnerable with someone that she loved. He’d kissed her soft and slow for what felt like hours, and Darcy didn’t want it to end. And so it is now—the patchy hair on Lupin’s face irritating her smooth skin, one hand tangled in her hair at the nape of her neck and the other holding Darcy’s own hand. When his lips part with hers to make their usual route along her jaw, Darcy gets to her feet, standing tall in front of him.

Lupin’s eyes follow her hands as she eases her underwear down, stepping out of it. She stands there for a moment as his eyes furtively move up and down her. After a few seconds, his eyes snap to her face again and he sits up, pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, leaning back against the sofa.

“Do you still love me?” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ears.

He smiles, holding out his hands for her. Darcy takes them, letting Lupin pull her towards him. She settles in his lap again, blushing. “Why would you ask such a ridiculous question?” he chuckles, his eyes falling back to her hands and she slowly unbuckles his belt, slipping it off. “Of course I still love you.”

That night is so like the first night that it makes Darcy yearn for days past, a painful aching in her heart and a pleasurable aching in her core. Lupin keeps his fingertips pressed firm into her waist, guiding her up and down him at a tantalizingly slow pace. Each time she tries to move quicker, he stops her, smiling, and kisses her. “Slowly, kitten,” he tells her, whispering it in her ear. Darcy rests her forehead against his, closing her eyes, their breaths coming slow and heavy. Their moans are soft and stifled, as if someone might be listening in—they groan against each other’s flesh, nipping gently at exposed skin, and Darcy flushes when he whispers obscene things into her ear, purring at her to continue just like that, that she’s a good girl and beautiful and _his_. And just as with the first night, Darcy is forcibly reminded of how wrong it is to be in this position—and not just settled atop his lap with her head thrown back while Lupin leaves wet and scratchy kisses down her exposed throat—but to be with him, to even consider marrying him, to even consider running away from everything with this man. Thoughts of her parents rush through her head unbidden, thoughts of what they might say if they knew what was happening between their daughter and their friend. She wonders what Sirius would say if he knew Lupin ever considered taking her to wife—Sirius, someone she loves certainly more than she has ever loved herself—Sirius, who may make her angry, but who only wants to best for her, who loves her as much as she loves him.

But those thoughts and the knowledge that—even with her not being his student—it’s still _wrong_ makes Darcy want Lupin, if possible, even more. They light a fire in her, making her stomach roll with desire, making it difficult to breathe—her breaths now coming in sharp gasps as she rolls her hips against him. With a hand upon his chest, she digs her fingernails into his skin, making him groan inwardly and giving her goosebumps up and down her spine. Darcy quickens their pace again, and this time he doesn’t stop or slow her, instead matching her pace as best he can, his hips jerking and bucking wildly beneath her.

It isn’t until afterwards, her head against his chest, lying between his legs on the sofa and listening to the steady drumbeat of his heart does he speak again. His eyes are closed, but his fingers run lightly up and down her back, tracing the curve of her spine as far as he can reach. “Please don’t tell Sirius I asked you to marry me,” he whispers, laughing softly.

Darcy lifts her head, smiling. She kisses his chest—several gentle kisses just to shower him with affection. She wonders, just briefly, if Lupin ever feels as starved for her attention as she does after not seeing him for days. “Why? Are you ashamed?”

“No, not ashamed—never ashamed. It’s just—I’d never hear the end of it.” Lupin opens his eyes, sounding exasperated. An amused smile plays at his lips for a few seconds before fading. Darcy can feel his heart begin to race, pounding against his chest. “The offer still stands, you know.”

She looks at him for a long moment before resting her cheek back against his chest to hear his anxiety. “I can’t,” she sighs, hating herself for saying it. “I’m happy with what we have right now.”

Lupin’s eyes flutter close again, and Darcy thinks he does a damn good job of masking his disappointment, even though it’s clear when he speaks. “It’s late. Let’s get some sleep, kitten.”

_You stupid idiot, just say yes._

But she doesn’t—for some reason, the words fail to come to her—and before long, Lupin’s deep breaths tell her he’s already fallen asleep.

* * *

Darcy tries to distract herself over the next few weeks best she can. She spends time with Gemma whenever she’s at Hogwarts, lying in a bed at the hospital wing and gossiping like students again. Gemma’s quite pleased that Lupin has approved her research paper, and she talks often about the next steps and what may come of it—in between their gossip, of course. Madam Pomfrey sometimes joins them, and the three of them giggle like schoolgirls. One night, as Madam Pomfrey tells them about an old boyfriend she’d had in school (detailing how they’d been caught by the Headmaster snogging in some bushes), and Darcy almost tells the both of them about Lupin asking her to marry him. As she opens her mouth to speak, she’s surprised that Madam Pomfrey brings him up, but when she begins the story, Darcy’s heart sinks into her stomach.

“She just waltzed right in here—casual as you please—told me about how she’d followed him down to the Shrieking Shack and showed me the scars like they were nothing,” Madam Pomfrey tells Gemma. “Next morning, he came to visit, and I tried—I tried to send him away, but Darcy—bless her heart—”

Darcy closes her eyes, her hands behind her head. Gemma sits at the end of the bed as Darcy’s feet, listening intently as Madam Pomfrey trails off. She doesn’t need Madam Pomfrey to remind her of that night, or morning, or whatever it was.

“What did he say, Darcy?” Gemma asks. “The next morning? You never told me.”

She opens her eyes again, staring up at the ceiling. “He told me he was going to resign,” she answers truthfully. “And I begged him not to.”

“Oh, my little lion!” Gemma laughs, giving Darcy’s leg a playful swat. Darcy can’t help but to smile, swelling with pride at Gemma’s nickname. “You’ve been in love with him since you laid eyes on him, haven’t you?”

“Not true,” she says, blushing. Opening a single eye to glance at Madam Pomfrey, who seems to be holding back from giving her honest opinion, Darcy adds quickly, “I’ve only been in love with him since I graduated, of course—please don’t look at me like that, Madam Pomfrey.”

Madam Pomfrey obliges, looking away and distracting herself. She begins to clean up some linen, folding them with a wave of her wand. “Sweet boys, the lot of them. Always getting into trouble, typically the bane of other students’ existence, and seemingly always here in my care—especially Mr. Lupin. If there was ever another Sirius Black in this school, it would likely be you, Smythe.”

Darcy looks at Gemma to see her reaction, only to find her friend grinning toothily. “I’ll take it, Madam Pomfrey, compliment or no.”

“Madam Pomfrey,” Darcy starts suddenly, sitting up on the bed and pulling her knees to his chest. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, Potter, anything.”

“I was only wondering—and I’m sure you’d know as much as anyone—what Remus was like when he was in school?” she asks, blushing slightly. “He doesn’t talk very much about himself when he was younger. Mostly my parents, or Sirius, but never really himself.”

Madam Pomfrey thinks for a moment, tapping her round chin with her index finger. “I suppose…” she sighs. “He reminded me a bit of you, Potter. Kind and mischievous, a hard worker, never the forefront of attention, but it suited him. Your father and Black…” A small, sad smile flits across the matron’s face. “They could be—intense—at times, and perhaps… maybe Lupin could have….”

“Could have what?” Darcy urges.

“Boys will be boys,” Madam Pomfrey continues quickly, and Gemma whispers in Darcy’s ear (“ _Don’t let Emily catch her saying that_.”). “He spent far too much time feeling sorry for himself.”

Gemma chuckles. “That _does_ sound like Darcy.”

Other days are spent in the confines of Snape’s office as they grade papers in silence and Darcy practices brewing potions while Snape gives her tips and critiques her style. These days aren’t as fun as the ones she spends with Gemma, but Darcy—feeling quite lonely—will take anyone’s company she can get at this point, including Snape’s. Neither of them bring up past arguments or words that have been said so often in the past few months, and Darcy’s glad of it. With Snape, it’s better to pretend it never happened—it’s not like they’re going to have a heart to heart about it, breaking down into sobs and apologizing while holding each other.

She even has dinner with Ludo Bagman a few times and, to Darcy’s surprise, they cheer her greatly. Ludo talks about everything and nothing—his Quidditch days, ex-girlfriends, his days at Hogwarts. He’s exuberant and oblivious to her suffering and sadness, which she feels is rather refreshing. Or maybe he’s not as oblivious as she assumes, but merely doesn’t feel like making Darcy talk about it if she doesn’t want to. One night, while discussing Ludo’s days as a Quidditch player in Hogwarts, Darcy asks what House he was in, and Ludo smirks.

“Slytherin, of course—I am, after all, cunning and ambitious and resourceful, and that’s what Slytherin House is all about, no?” he answers proudly, leaning over the table towards her. “Does that change your opinion of me?”

“No, not at all,” Darcy grins. “My best friend was a Slytherin, and she was a proud one, too. She still is.”

“I’m glad to hear it—the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin has been around since I was in school,” he says, seemingly relieved. “I bet you were the model Gryffindor, weren’t you?”

Darcy shrugs, unsure of how to answer. Instead, she laughs breathily. “I suppose so, sir.” She sighs happily, resting an elbow on the table to prop her head up. “I remember my Sorting—I was eleven years old, the smallest one among them, shaking and terrified, and when it was my turn to sit upon that stool, I could have died.”

“Everyone’s terrified at their Sorting,” Ludo chuckles.

“None more so than I was,” Darcy replies with a grin. “Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat upon my head and I remember hearing that voice—‘Another Potter, eh?’ I remember it so clearly, even now, and before I could even think a response, it Sorted me into Gryffindor. It wasn’t until a few days later that Professor McGonagall told me my mother and father were in Gryffindor, along with all their closest friends.”

“I’m sure it made you proud.”

“Yeah,” she confesses, nodding slowly. “It did.”

They eat in silence for a few moments, and then Ludo looks up again, smiling. “I have some happy news, I think.”

“Oh? I could always use some happy news.”

“Next week, the champions will find out what the last task will be.” Ludo sees her smile and clears his throat. “Now—don’t think of asking me what it is! I’m sure your brother will tell you… I just thought you’d want to know…”

But her favorite days are the ones spent with Lupin. He comes to visit at the end of May, on the night Ludo promises to show the champions the final task. Darcy finds Lupin already waiting for her when she returns to her room after her last class of the day—a pleasant surprise. “You didn’t tell me you changed the password,” he chuckles, kissing her deeply as soon as the door shuts behind her. “Ron had to let me in. Lucky he did—I would have been standing there like a fool waiting for you.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming tonight,” Darcy says, kissing him once more before dropping all of her things on the sofa. “I have some work to do—do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

It takes her the better part of the evening to finish all the work she’s been putting off. Lupin sits with her on the sofa, reading to himself and occasionally glancing over the top of his book to smile at Darcy. She blushes each and every time, the sight of his grin sending butterflies to fluttering in her stomach. As she works, she’s reminded of something that she’s been nervous about telling him, and decides to be as casual as possible about it.

“Mr. Bagman’s invited me to a party,” she tells him, without looking up from the final essay that needs finished grading. “It’s next weekend.” Darcy sees a muscle in Lupin’s clenched jaw twitch, and shakes her head. “He said you could come.”

“No one is going to want a werewolf at their party,” he mutters bitterly, and Darcy frowns. “What kind of party is it, anyway?”

“He said one of his old Quidditch friends is hosting,” Darcy continues, her brow furrowing. “Mr. Bagman wanted to introduce me to some old friends of his.”

“He wants to show you off like a trophy.”

Darcy opens and closes her mouth a moment, struggling to find an answer. “He doesn’t want to show me off like a trophy,” she repeats incredulously. “He just wants to introduce me to some of his friends.”

Lupin looks away, scrunching his nose, looking wolfish in the glow of the stifling fire. “Tell him to be mindful of where he puts his hands, then. You’re mine, not a trophy to be handled carelessly and greedily by others.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Lupin repeats, his tone dangerous. He turns to look at Darcy again, his face stony. “Forgive me, Darcy—forgive me for not wanting another man to show you off in my place. Like I don’t know the kind of attention you’ll receive at a party like that.”

“It’s not like that,” Darcy snaps. “I would never do that to you. And I don’t need your protection anyway—I’m quite capable of fending off wandering hands on my own.”

Lupin scoffs, but says no more, returning to his book. His eyes stay fixed on one point, and Darcy snatches the book from his hands, closing it with a snap and tossing it on the coffee table. He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and sinking back into a sofa.

Afraid that she’ll say something she doesn’t mean, Darcy leaves him on the sofa, retreating to her bedroom. In complete silence, she undresses out of her robes and dress, not surprised to find Lupin standing in the threshold a few moments later as she digs around in a pile of clothes, half-naked. She glances at him, looking so incredibly cool and casual leaning against the doorframe, watching her carefully.

“If you don’t want me to go to the party, Remus, then just say so instead of sulking.” Darcy pulls an oversized t-shirt from a pile of unfolded clothes, pulling it on over her head.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Fine. Then I won’t.” Darcy gives him a sharp, cold look before cleaning off a chair, covered with old clothing she’s neglected to put away. “I’d rather spend time with you, anyway.”

He steps closer to her and Darcy goes to move away from him, but Lupin’s hand darts out to grab her wrist, keeping her in place. She looks up at him again, sighing heavily, her lips pursed tightly. “Listen to me,” he tells her quietly, releasing his grip on her wrist. Darcy raises her eyebrows. Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, Lupin clears his throat. “When I would look on that map and see you and Oliver together—it—it drove me mad, Darcy, just thinking about someone else touching you, loving you, kissing you. To know that he didn’t deserve to see you the way he did—you’ve no idea the hold you had over me, even then.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me and Ludo,” she tells him, but his words make her heart beat faster, skipping a beat and making her stomach churn. “Nothing would ever happen, and I’d make sure of it. You shouldn’t worry about me and anyone.”

“I’m not—I’m not worried about _you_ ,” Lupin says, laughing nervously and reaching out to hold her face in his hands for a moment. His thumbs brush over her cheeks and he smiles, resting his forehead against hers and kissing her nose. His hands fall to his sides again. “I’m not the man I wish I could be for you—”

Darcy stops him before he can get any further, disheartened by his slumped shoulders, the sadness in his face. “Don’t say things like that,” she whispers, reaching for his own face. Her left hand cups his cheek, and Lupin sighs heavily, closing his eyes and placing another kiss on her palm. “Look at me.”

“Darcy,” he sighs, opening his eyes and lowering her hand from his face. “Your parents would kill me if they knew the things we’ve done.”

This makes her laugh, which seems to surprise Lupin. “Probably.” She kisses his cheek softly, running her hand through his hair and lowering her voice. “You _were_ jealous,” she teases, and Lupin growls in her ear, not bothering with a coherent answer.

He lifts her quickly and unexpectedly, making her shriek with delight. Darcy wraps her legs around his waist, grinning as he lays her back down on the bed. “That boy didn’t deserve you,” he whispers, his cheeks slightly pink. Darcy only smiles at him, resting her bare calves on his shoulders.

“Why must we always bring up Oliver Wood?” Darcy jokes, sighing when Lupin’s lips make their way down her calf, to her thigh. “You still haven’t told me about this mystery girl who persuaded Remus Lupin—the _prefect_ —to join her in a dark closet.”

He laughs against the inside of her thigh, moving her legs off his shoulders and propping himself over her. “What do you want to know?” he asks her, a toothy grin glued to his face. “Is it such a surprise to you that I actually knew someone who wanted to kiss me?”

Darcy considers him. “Did you use tongue?”

Lupin flushes in earnest—an endearing sight. He laughs again, this time a real, genuine laughter. “We are _not_ having this conversation right now.”

He goes to kiss her, but Darcy wriggles underneath him, turning her face away and giggling. “Fine, I guess I’ll just have to ask Professor McGonagall.”

He lifts his head, looking outraged. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

His beard scratches her neck, tickling her, as he goes to kiss her again, making her laugh and squirm, his hips pressed to hers. It makes him smile against her skin, and Lupin continues to pepper her face with ticklish kisses. “Stay still,” he pleads, chuckling. When he realizes continuing to try and kiss her is futile, Lupin pulls away from her, looking down into her face with a warm smile. “I love you.”

Darcy kisses him quickly on the lips. “I love you, too.”

“I wish it could always be like this.”

Her smile widens. “Me too.”

“Do I get to kiss you now?”

Nodding, Darcy closes her eyes as he leans in to kiss her, tangling her fingers in the back of his hair. Lupin moves her up the bed, letting her rest against the pillows. His lips find her neck, his fingers working their way down her body to the waistband of her underwear.

“You’re not planning on having company tonight, are you?” he teases, his voice low and breathy, easing her underwear down and tossing them aside. When Darcy shakes her head, he laughs, kissing her just beneath her navel. “Good.”

He hesitates, resting his cheek against the inside of her thigh to look at her. “What?” she asks.

Lupin’s jaw tenses for a moment, and he sighs, pressing his lips to her warm skin. “Nothing.” His hot breath so close to the heat between her legs makes Darcy squirm, impatient, her chest already heaving.

Darcy remembers all the dreams she’d had of him when she was a student—of the sweetest dreams she’s ever known, despite the shame they’d brought her. To know that, several months—almost a year later—those dreams would become reality is still a concept she struggles with sometimes. Whimpering and writhing on her own bed with his fingertips digging into her hips, she can’t believe that this is real—that he loves her as she loves him, that things like this are commonplace now instead of just fantasies. Lupin makes her cry out for him, over and over and over until her legs shake violently.

And just as he kisses her on her mouth again, working furiously to get his belt off, they both jump at the sound—

“ _Darcy_!”

Lupin pants, shaking his head and looking slightly irritated. “Do you ever get any privacy here?”

Darcy smiles apologetically. “Go away, Harry! I have company!”

From the other side of the door, Harry is quick to respond. “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important! They’ve found Barty Crouch!”

She and Lupin stare at each other for a moment, digesting this information, and they both leap off the bed, searching for Darcy’s clothes. The two of them race to the living area to find Harry pulling off the Invisibility Cloak, as out of breath as Darcy is. “Well?” she asks quickly. “Where was he?”

Harry launches into his story—how he’d been down by the Quidditch pitch to see the third task (“It’s a maze, by the way—filled with whatever creatures Hagrid can procure.”), how Viktor Krum had begged a private word with him about Hermione, and how Barty Crouch had stumbled out of the Forbidden Forest acting strange. Darcy and Lupin exchange glances every so often, and she paces in front of the fire, her arms crossed and her brain whirring.

“He was talking to a tree—as if his wife and son were still alive,” Harry finishes. “And then he’d kind of—snap out of it and—he was asking for Dumbledore—he said everything was his fault—Bertha Jorkins, his son—”

“What have they done with him?” Lupin presses him, looking at Darcy again.

Harry shakes his head. “I left Krum with him to get Dumbledore and Dumbledore went down to find him—and Moody was down there and—Krum was Stunned and Crouch was gone—”

“Gone?” Both Lupin and Darcy ask at the same time, and Darcy shakes her head, trying to make sense of it all.

“Gone.” Harry sighs, mussing up his hair, and Darcy catches Lupin smile weakly for a moment. “He said Voldemort is getting stronger. Karkaroff was furious with Dumbledore. He thought it was a plot to get Krum out of the tournament or something—I don’t know.”

“None of that is new, though. We knew all of that already.” Darcy frowns. “Have you written to Sirius?”

“Dumbledore said not to send any letters until tomorrow. I shouldn’t be here, but I had to tell you.”

Darcy checks her watch, stopping her pacing. “You should get back,” she tells Harry. “If anything else happens, let me know. You did the right thing coming here, Harry.”

Harry nods, smiling at Darcy. “Night, Darcy.” He looks awkwardly at Lupin. “Night. Sorry I interrupted.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She smiles back at him, ruffling his hair and kissing his head before throwing the Invisibility Cloak back over him. “Goodnight.”

Lupin waits until Harry leaves the room before speaking again. Darcy sits beside him on the sofa, looking into the fire. “You know what that sounds like?” Lupin begins finally after a heavy silence. She turns her head to look at him, cheeks still flushed from prior activities. When Darcy hums in response, he hesitates before answering. “Sounds like Crouch was struggling against the Imperius Curse.”

Darcy sits up straight, slowly. “You’re serious? But who would have casted it on him? And how did he leave so quickly? He Stunned Viktor Krum?”

“I’ll have to talk to Dumbledore,” Lupin thinks, rubbing his face. “We still don’t have enough information to understand, but this is—troubling.”

Darcy’s brow furrows. “What should we do? Should we go now?”

“No,” he says softly. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. It’s late, and Crouch is gone.” He kisses her on the cheek. “Come to bed, and we can talk about it tomorrow.”

But even after Lupin tires himself out and falls asleep with little to no trouble, Darcy lays awake for a long time, curled up naked beside him.

_My fault_ , she thinks. _He thinks it’s his fault—his son, his wife, Bertha Jorkins—his fault, his fault, his fault. Is it possible the grief has driven him mad? What are the chances he’s under the Imperius Curse? What if he’s going mad?_

Darcy closes her eyes, seeing her mother, her father, Mrs. Duncan. My fault, my fault, my fault, she tells herself. She drapes an arm around Lupin’s middle, but he doesn’t stir.

_How long until grief drives me mad, as well?_

 


	53. Chapter 53

_Darcy,_

_How could you let Harry go off with Viktor Krum by himself? I thought, with everything going on, you’d be keeping a closer eye on Harry and here I find out that you’ve let him roam the grounds with the opposition. I’ve told him that he’s not to leave his common room alone again, and he’s to swear to me that he won’t go out of bounds anymore. See to it that he keeps that promise._

_Remus is right—Crouch is gone and, for the moment, there is nothing you can do. However, that doesn’t mean things will return to normal. Someone put Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire intending for him to fail—or worse, be hurt or killed. The final task is their final chance, and they’re likely getting impatient. I need you to help prepare Harry best you can—teach him to Stun, a few hexes, and practice Disarming with him, as well. I want him with Ron and Hermione as often as possible, and I want him with you as often as possible._

_DO NOT COME DOWN TO SEE ME. It’s too dangerous right now. You never know who may be lurking around Hogsmeade. I’ll let you know when we can meet again—hopefully once this Crouch business is settled. I would hate for someone to catch you sneaking to see me, as much as I would like to speak with you._

_All of my love,_

_Sirius_

Darcy looks up at the bustling Great Hall, scowling and crumpling the paper in her hands. Max hoots loudly in her ear, perched atop her shoulder, clearly offended another owl has had the audacity to deliver her a letter. Sirius’s letter has made her heart hammer in her chest, and when Darcy automatically holds up a piece of sausage for Max to pick from her fingers, she’s brought out of her reverie by someone hissing her name.

“Potter! _Potter_!”

She leans forward, the better to see past Snape. A few seats down, on Dumbledore’s left side, Professor McGonagall is looking from her face to Max’s with tight lips. Darcy mutters a hasty, “Sorry,” before shooing Max off her shoulder, but not before he takes the rest of the sausage from her fingers. She meets eyes for Dumbledore for a split second and quickly averts her gaze, pressing herself against her chair and grinding her teeth.

As if it’s _her_ fault that Harry went off with Viktor Krum. Harry had been honest about it this morning, out of earshot from Ron and Hermione, and confided that Viktor had only wanted to know if there was anything going on between Harry and Hermione. Darcy trusted Viktor with Hermione—she hadn’t given the idea a second thought—and there’s no reason she wouldn’t trust him with Harry, either. The fact that they’d seen Crouch together was just coincidence—it had to be. And besides, someone had Stunned Krum, so clearly he wasn’t a part of whatever was planned—if anything was planned.

Only yesterday after classes, Mad-Eye Moody had stumped down to the dungeon classroom as Darcy had been cleaning up her things, preparing to leave. At the sound of his wooden leg echoing in the corridor beyond the classroom door, Darcy had tensed, giving Snape an almost pleading look. “I’ll walk you back to your room, Potter,” Moody had said in his gruffest voice, standing in the threshold of the door.

“Actually, sir, I was going to talk to Professor Snape about something—” Darcy looked over her shoulder, but Snape’s eyes had been fixed intently upon Moody. He had, however, stepped up beside Darcy, standing shoulder to shoulder with her and giving her a shred of courage. “Perhaps another time, Professor Moody.”

“That scared of me, are you?”

Darcy had faltered, unsure if the twitch she’d seen on his lips was supposed to be a smile or not, and made uncomfortable by the way his blue eye looked at her while his normal one looked at Snape. She’d looked to Snape for help, but he had only put a hand upon her shoulder and shoved her gently towards Moody. Finally, Darcy had agreed to walk with Moody, their pace much slower than she’s used to as they made their way up and up and up. For a few minutes, there had been only silence, and Darcy hadn’t known what to say.

“I hope you plan on teaching your brother some useful little spells,” Moody panted, climbing the marble staircase, trailing after Darcy, who had been taking the stairs two at a time. “The third task is near.” There had a sense of excitement in his tone that made Darcy nervous.

“Of course not,” she’d lied right away, without looking at him. “That would be against the rules.”

“As is stealing gillyweed from Snape’s personal stores,” Moody had replied with a bark of a laugh, suddenly close to her ear. His voice had sent shivers down her spine, but his words had made her bristle.

“That was different,” Darcy snapped. Her cheeks had turned pink, but she persisted. “I didn’t realize he wouldn’t actually be in danger—and I replaced everything that I took.” She had hesitates then, putting some distance between herself and Moody, suddenly remembering something that makes her stomach churn. “Professor—the other night, did you possibly see Mr. Crouch on the map?”

“Ah, got there already, have you? Your brother and his friends already came this afternoon to ask me that question.” Professor Moody had halted outside her portrait, and Darcy didn’t feel very comfortable revealing her private rooms to him. Instead, she had wrapped her arms around her protectively, rocking back and forth on her heels. “No—I didn’t see him. He was gone by the time I summoned the map to me.”

Darcy had nodded slowly, looking down at her feet as his magical eye had revolved in a complete circle before settling on her again.

“Your friend, Duncan—she’s training to be an Auror, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re content being Snape’s lap dog? Thought a girl like you might fancy a career in the Ministry.”

It had felt like a slap to the face. His tone had been playful—or playful in Moody’s own way—but regardless, the words stung. “I’m happy where I am,” she had lied instantly, not wanting Mad-Eye Moody to think otherwise. “Professor Snape has been very kind to me.”

“A practiced speech if I ever heard one. Whatever you say, Potter…”

Darcy had bid him a quick goodbye and snuck into her room. When she scowled, twisting her face into an angry and mocking expression at the thought of Mad-Eye Moody, she hadn’t remembered at first that his magical eye can see through solid walls.

Now, at the memory of Moody walking her through the corridors, Darcy leans forward to look past Snape again, catching a glimpse of Moody drinking something from his personal flask. He slightly repulses her, as horrible as it is to say, but his frighteningly scarred face and harsh manner make her uncomfortable. Or perhaps it’s the fact that he’s taken Lupin’s job—after all, Lupin was a much better teacher than Moody (according to Harry and his friends, anyway), and Darcy would rather have Lupin at Hogwarts than some half-crazed ex-Auror.

“Eat, Darcy,” Snape insists, his voice soft, but still commanding.

Darcy only glares at him, not making any move to do so. She hates it sometimes, that while Snape plays the father figure—insisting she eat, insisting she sleep, insisting she stop _fucking worrying_ (maybe not his exact words, but something along those lines)—Sirius, her own godfather, is holed up in a cave eating leftover food and rats, writing letters to her with the sole purpose of chastising her for things out of her control. She opens her mouth to spit something back at Snape, but catches Dumbledore’s twinkling blue eyes again and instead shoves some food into her mouth, raising her eyebrows at Snape in an irritated fashion, chewing loudly.

“Are you done?” he asks flatly, not amused by her spectacle.

“ _Potter_!”

Darcy looks past Snape once more to see Professor McGonagall staring at her once more. She blushes, closes her mouth, and finishes chewing politely. A few of the other teachers chuckle—Hagrid and Professor Sprout among them. “Sorry, Professor McGonagall.” But Darcy gives Snape a small smile anyway.

* * *

“Why don’t you read to me tonight?”

“Me?” Darcy’s eyes flick to the book already opened to the next poem in Lupin’s lap. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer, but holds out the book for her. Hair still wet from a shower, the fire crackling in the hearth, and two empty glasses on the table in front of them, Darcy takes the book warily and pulls her knees to her chest. Lupin gives her a toothy smile, scooping up the glasses and standing to refill them. As she hears him fumbling with a new bottle of wine, Darcy clears her throat.

“‘Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, in the forests of a night; what immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry’,” she begins. The cork pops behind her. “‘In what distant deeps or skies’—”

Lips touch the crook of her neck softly from behind, and Darcy closes her eyes, sighing contently. “Keep going, kitten,” he murmurs against her skin.

Darcy’s eyes flutter open as he kisses her neck again. She inhales deeply and swallows. “‘Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire?’” Another soft kiss, his breath hot on her skin. Darcy shudders. “‘What the hand, dare seize the fire?’”

“Good,” he purrs, kissing her one last time before moving back to the sofa. He places the glasses down on the table again, sits close beside her, and raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Continue.”

Looking at him nervously, Darcy does as he says. “‘And what shoulder, and what art’,” she says. “Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began’—” She stops abruptly as he kisses her cheek, his hand gently squeezing her thigh, lowering her knees from her chest.

“Keep reading, Darcy,” Lupin whispers, smiling at her. “I’m listening.”

“‘And when thy heart began to beat,” she breathes, his hand tightening on her thigh, his lips touching her jaw. “What dread hand? And what dread feet?’” Lupin drags his fingertips higher up her thigh, stopping when she stops reading. Darcy glances sideways at him. “‘What the hammer? What the chain’—”

“Keep going,” he growls in her ear, making Darcy’s heart leap in her throat.

“‘In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil’—” Darcy hesitates just long enough to inhale sharply when Lupin’s fingers slip up her shorts. His touch and his lips on her jaw make her pulse pound in her ears. “—‘what dread grasp, dare its deadly terrors clasp!’”

“Good girl,” he mutters, pulling his face away to watch her as his fingers push aside the thin fabric of her underwear. “There’s more to the poem.”

She nods, trying to focus on the poem, squirming as he touches her. “‘When the stars threw down their spears, and water’d heaven with their tears,” Darcy continues, trying to keep her voice level. “‘Did he smile his work to see? Did he who make the Lamb make thee?’”

Darcy stops again to look down at his hand, working furiously between her legs. He kisses her neck again, nipping her flesh. “Tiger, Tiger…” he whispers, urging her on.

“‘Tiger, Tiger burning bright, in the forests of the night’,” she finishes, letting out a soft sigh of pleasure. “What immortal’—”

Before she can finish, and as his fingers curl inside her, eliciting from Darcy a stifled moan, the door to her apartments open and Harry rushes in, calling her name. Lupin pulls his hand away, not quick enough to escape being seen, and Darcy drops the book in her lap, covering her bright red face with both of her hands. “Can we help you with something, Harry?” Lupin asks roughly, in a tone that’s most unlike him.

“Um—er—” Harry stammers like a fool for a moment, and Darcy chances a look at him through her fingers. His face is as red as Darcy’s, and he looks down at his shoes, breathing heavily. “I—er—”

“What do you want, Harry?” Darcy snaps, lowering her hands and meeting Harry’s eyes. “We’re a little busy here.”

“I—I—I had a dream—I think—”

This gets Darcy’s attention, and though she sees the annoyance flashing in Lupin’s eyes and the grinding of his jaw, she notices that he seems slightly more interested, as well. “Well?” Darcy asks, her impatience growing with each second that her brother continues to stutter. “What was the dream?”

Harry takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Voldemort was—he was torturing Wormtail—” Darcy winces as Lupin grabs her wrist at these worst, gripping tight. Harry screws up his face, concentrating. “He said that Wormtail’s blunder had been fixed and someone was dead and he wouldn’t be eaten by the snake, and—and then Voldemort said that he’d feed me to the snake, and he used the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail, and—”

Lupin’s grip tightens, and Darcy pulls her wrist away. “Ouch!” she hisses. Lupin gives his head a quick shake and mutters an apology. “And what else, Harry? What else happened in the dream?”

“Nothing—my scar hurt and I woke up then, and I went straight to Professor Dumbledore,” he explains, and Darcy nods, glad that he’s done so. Her heart is racing now, racing for fear instead of pleasure, and her chest heaves with each breath. “But I had to wait for him, and I saw—I didn’t mean to—” Harry looks briefly at Lupin, looking away quickly and sheepishly. “But Dumbledore called it a Pensieve and I sort of, fell in…”

Darcy listens closely as Harry explains to her what a Pensieve is, how he’d fallen right into one of Dumbledore’s memories, right into a trial of some Death Eaters, led by Barty Crouch. He details to Darcy and Lupin how Igor Karkaroff had been brought forth and named names for a chance at freedom, how Ludovic Bagman had been tried for passing information unknowingly to Death Eaters and set free by people who adored him, how Barty Crouch’s own son had been brought before him with other Death Eaters to be tried for the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom, how he’d pleaded with his father, begged him, and how Mrs. Crouch had sobbed and cried, how Mr. Crouch insisted he had no son. Harry moves to sit beside his sister at this point, still talking wildly. He tells them about Dumbledore seeing a connection between Bertha Jorkins, Barty Crouch, and a Muggle man who had been killed over the summer, how Sirius had told Dumbledore about Harry’s scar over the summer and how Dumbledore had suggested Sirius stay in the cave.

“Dumbledore said he thinks I’m connected to Voldemort through my scar,” Harry continues. Darcy’s eyes are shining with tears, and all thoughts of what Harry had walked in on are pushed to the back of her mind. “He said that what I dreamt probably happened and that he’s getting stronger, and asked me not to tell anyone about Neville’s parents, but—” He shrugs, looking slightly guilty. “I had to tell you. And he said Ludo has never done anything of the sort since, so you shouldn’t worry—”

None of this is really news to Darcy, given that Emily, Gemma, and Lupin had given her most of this information months ago, but it still shocks her, shakes her to her core. “Harry, I—Remus, what—?”

“There’s one more thing,” Harry says, looking very serious. “One of the names Karkaroff named—it was Snape. He named Snape. Dumbledore said that Snape turned spy, and he’s convinced that…” He narrows his eyes at Darcy’s blank expression, clearly having expected a different reaction. Jumping to his feet after a heavy silence, Harry spits, “You knew.”

“I—”

“You _knew_ he was a Death Eater,” Harry repeats, a vein popping in his forehead.

Darcy purses her lips, looking to Lupin for support. He rubs at the scruff on his face, looking into the fire. Looking back to Harry, she sighs. “I saw Karkaroff’s Dark Mark when he came into Snape’s classroom that day.”

“And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell any of us—you _lied_ to Sirius?” Harry shakes his head. “What else did you know? What other secrets are you keeping? Why wouldn’t you tell anyone about Snape?”

“Harry—” Darcy breathes, wiping the tears that grace her cheeks. “Harry, I’m sorry.”

“I thought we didn’t keep secrets.”

His words physically pain her. Completely forgetting for the moment that Lupin is even in the room with them, Darcy falters. “I trust him,” she whispers, her breath shaky. “I trust Snape—Dumbledore said—”

“I know how you feel about Snape,” Harry retorts sharply. “He’s kind to you, so it doesn’t matter how he treats everyone else—Hermione, _me_ —”

“Harry—” Darcy cries softly.

“I thought you were trying to help me get to the bottom of this,” he continues, not letting her have a word in edgewise. “And instead, you’ve been keeping secrets from me, fooling around with _him_ instead of worrying about who put my name in the Goblet of Fire! I’ve just told you Voldemort wants to feed me to his snake and you’ve barely batted an eye! I told you Ludo Bagman was passing information and you—” Harry’s face falls. “You knew that, too, didn’t you?”

“How dare you speak to your sister like that?” Lupin asks once he realizes Darcy is not going to respond, his voice louder than Harry’s. Darcy looks at him, shaking her head, silently begging him to stop talking. Harry’s eyes snap to Lupin, trying to hide his shame, but his cheeks redden as Lupin fixes him with a disappointed and firm look. “How dare you say those things to Darcy after all she’s done for you? After all she’s sacrificed for you?”

“Remus, please—”

“Darcy has given up her dreams for you,” Lupin continues, rising slowly to his feet. “And you dare stand here and chastise her for seeking comfort from me, for attempting to live the life she never had the chance at.”

Harry clenches his jaw, looking at Darcy one last time before turning on his heels and storming out. “Harry, no—” Darcy jumps up, making to run after him, but Lupin catches her wrist, pulling her to him. “Let me _go_ —let me go, please—” She only cries harder, struggling in his grip. “What did you say that to him for?”

“It’s true, Darcy,” Lupin says, placing his hands on her upper arms, trying to stop her squirming. “Darcy—stop, please—Harry should respect what you’ve done for him. He should respect your privacy and—”

“Let me go, Remus Lupin— _now_ —”

“I said those things because I love you, Darcy, come on—” He sighs loudly, attempting to kiss her. Darcy continues to struggle against him, turning her head away and breaking free of his grip. “Darcy—”

She ignores him, stumbling as she steps into her shoes and throws herself through the portrait hole and letting it close after her. Climbing the stairs and running through corridors, trying to catch Harry before he reaches Gryffindor Tower. And finally, as she rounds a corner, she sees him. “Harry, wait!”

Harry stops, turning to face his sister. His eyes are wet, but he wipes them quickly. “What?”

Her long legs taking her quickly to where he’s standing, Darcy wraps her arms around herself. “Harry, please—he didn’t mean those things—”

“Of course he did,” Harry replies. “He meant every word. You think I’ve forgotten what you’ve done for me? You think I’ve forgotten what our parents’ death has meant for you?”

“No,” she sighs, crying again. Darcy hates herself for it, hates herself for crying so damn much, hates herself for being in this position. “No—Harry, I know you haven’t forgotten—I didn’t care for you because I had to, I cared for you because I love you and I want you safe—”

“I know that it’s hard for you right now, being here instead of with him,” Harry says, frowning. “But Voldemort is getting stronger, and you can’t keep secrets anymore—this is so much bigger than the Triwizard Tournament, and while I’m fighting for my life, you’re off snogging Lupin and fooling around on the sofa—”

“What do you want me to do?” Darcy asks, almost desperate, afraid to hear his answer. “I thought you were all right with it.”

Harry runs his hands through his hair, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I thought it was going to be us—you and me forever, just like it’s always been.”

“It still can be,” she tells him. “Harry, it’ll always be us—whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together—Remus is as much a part of us as Hermione and Ron and Gemma are—”

But Harry shakes his head. “Is this what you want, Darcy? You want to be with him?”

“Yes,” she answers without hesitation. “Yes—I love him, and you know that. He loves _me._ ”

Harry looks at her for a long time, and without saying anything else, leaves Darcy standing in the corridor alone, crying. She watches him go, rounding the corner of the corridor towards Gryffindor Tower. As soon as he’s out of sight, Darcy feels the familiar pain in her chest of her heart breaking, the surge of pain that floods her senses. To know that she’s hurt Harry the way she’s been so afraid of hurting him is like a bullet wound. Darcy looks around, panting loudly, her breathing echoing in the halls and her heart so loud that it’s deafening.

Voldemort is getting stronger again—that had always seemed so clear, so obvious. But hearing everything from Harry seems to make it real. The threat of a second war looms in the near future, and Darcy doesn’t know that she could bear it. _Why does it hurt so badly?_ she wonders. _Why can’t I just accept this is what it is? I am who I am? Why can’t I let myself be happy?_

But another voice argues, _Because it will all be taken away from me. It is all fleeting, all temporary_. She had lost her parents at five, her godfather not a week afterward, forced to live with people who didn’t want her. It was hard to be happy at the Dursleys when you lived in fear of Vernon, always dreading a smack on the face, a rap on the knuckles, a lick to the back of the thighs. It was hard to be happy at Hogwarts without her brother, and she’d always had to return to Privet Drive every summer, which always heightened her anxiety. Even when Harry had come to Hogwarts, Darcy remembers it being difficult to feel happy when strange things started happening, strange things that frightened her.

_What’s stopping me from leaving? What could Dumbledore do if I continued down to Hogsmeade and left? That’s not so hard—why can’t I do it?_

Darcy rubs furiously at her eyes, running her hands through her hair. _I can’t leave Harry, not while Voldemort is getting stronger. I’d be a coward—James and Lily’s daughter, a coward. I’d be abandoning the last of my family._

_I’ve lost sight of everything_ , she thinks, as her feet take her automatically back down the corridor and the moving staircases, automatically skipping the trick step, automatically carrying her past the portrait where Lupin is waiting for her in her room. _I’ve lost sight of who I am—of who my brother is._ She runs down the marble staircase to the entrance hall, hurrying past some lingering students who are still finishing dinner. And when she exits the castle, the fresh, summer air hits her like a train. Cool night air enters her lungs, constricting her throat, making it hard to breathe, and her body is racked with sobs.

She hadn’t realize her feet had a destination in mind. Darcy finds herself at the very edge of the lake, staring out at the still surface of the water, where so long ago now, she and her friends had gone swimming together, laughing and giggling like teenage girls ought to. It almost seems a lifetime ago, when she’d had friends and remembered how to laugh. She remembers the days spent here following the night in the Shrieking Shack after she’d learned of Sirius’s innocence—that thought had carried her through the rest of the year, even after Lupin resigned.

Just weeks ago, Darcy had watched Harry swallow the gillyweed and dive into the lake to save his best friend. All of the stands and rickety buildings have been cleared away, making it seem rather empty. _Why did you have to leave us?_ she asks silently, hoping that somewhere, her mother and father can hear her thoughts. _Why couldn’t Aunt Petunia have loved us as her own children? Why couldn’t Aunt Petunia care for me the way I should have been cared for? Why couldn’t she recognize the toll it all took on me?_

Darcy takes a step forward, letting the water lap around her ankles, submerging her shoes. The water is surprisingly cool, even during a warm night. It’s refreshing, and gives her goosebumps.

Another step. The water comes up to her shins.

Another, and she’s submerged to her waist. _Why must I always have to choose? Why must I always be faced with choices I cannot make?_

She wonders if the giant squid is watching her, waiting to wrap its tentacles around her and drag her to the depths of the lake. She wonders if the grindylows will swarm her, pulling her kicking and screaming down deeper, trapping her beneath the surface until everything turns black.

Darcy’s shirt is soaking wet now, the water at her chin, cold. She holds out her arms across the surface, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes, plunging underwater completely.

The weight of her clothes and shoes makes it easy. As she slowly sinks lower and lower, Darcy opens her eyes, but it’s dark—so dark that she can’t make out anything but shadows that are blacker than the water. Maybe it’s a grindylow watching her from in between the weeds, or one of the merpeople. The giant squid is nowhere to be seen—not that she could see it. Tiny fish surround her, and when she looks up at the surface, there is no light. Darcy isn’t even sure where the surface is anymore. She closes her eyes again, letting out bubbles that scare the fish away.

Lack of air makes her suddenly dizzy, and her body aches and her chest is on fire—the pain is more than she’d thought. _Just a few more moments_ , she tells herself, her brain screaming for oxygen. _It will hurt, but at least there will be no more pain in a moment_. But it’s more than hurting—it’s more than pain. Darcy involuntarily opens her mouth, desperate for air, and lets out a silent scream with her eyes wide open again, clawing at her throat and kicking her legs feebly. Everything goes darker than it was a moment before, and she can’t see the silhouettes that watch her anymore. Water pours in her mouth and that pain is worse—water in her lungs, her chest burning, the world swimming on the verge of consciousness.

And something clamps down on her wrists tight, around her waist—surely the giant squid has finally come to drag her down to the abyss. Darcy doesn’t fight it, allowing the squid to pull her deeper—or is it? She can’t tell which way is up or down, and she closes her eyes, allowing the darkness to take her.

And a minute later, or maybe seconds, or weeks—how long has it really been?—Darcy vomits. She dry heaves on the bank, ropes still wrapped tight around her waist and wrists, throwing up water. Someone’s hand is on her back, a firm hand, holding her still as she continues to be sick. Her chest still hurts and her head is throbbing violently, and when she hears the voice in her ear hiss, “What were you _thinking_?”, she breaks down into sobs again, unsure of how to even answer it.

Snape takes the ropes off her waist, tugging at the ones around her wrists—the same cords he’d bound Lupin with last June. She rubs at the raw skin around her chafed wrists, looking up into his face. “You saved me,” she rasps, hardly able to speak through the pain and sobs.

“What could have possibly been going through your head—”

Darcy falls into him, burying her face into his chest, her hair soaking his cloak. Snape exhales deeply and for a few long minutes they sit on the bank of the lake, completely still, as she cries. 


	54. Chapter 54

The entire night is a blur after her argument with Harry. She remembers Snape pulling her from the lake and holding her hair, touching her back, as she’d vomited water from her burning lungs, chest, and throat. “Breathe, Darcy—slowly, _breathe_ ,” he said, over and over and over again. She’d breathed in deeply to relish the air, allowing it to fill her and flood her with oxygen and _life_. Never before had Darcy so appreciated the simple act of breathing, but after thinking she’d never draw breath again, it had been the most amazing feeling she’d ever experienced in that moment. She had inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly, and though it had been painful and coughing spells had wracked her body for a short time, Darcy didn’t care—she was _alive_ , and she was _saved_ , and things were suddenly much easier than they’d been before she walked into the lake.

Snape had dried her clothes with a simple spell, conjured a blanket that he draped around her shoulders as she continued to shiver. He had waited for her for a few moments as Darcy sat on the ground, too weak to stand. Snape hadn’t asked her anymore questions or pressed her for answers, hadn’t hurled insults at her or been cruel—he’d taken her hand in his, helping her to her feet. The feeling of her hand in his had been queer, Darcy remembers, much like the night they’d danced in The Three Broomsticks. It was much different from what she remembered the first time Snape had saved her, carrying her from the Shrieking Shack as she bled out in his arms—even then, he’d called her stupid, called her an idiot, continued to demean her until she fainted. Not this time—not that Snape had praised her or comforted her with words, but a lack of insults was all right, it was a start. Darcy had clung onto him as Snape led her back to the castle, clung onto his arm as if letting go meant certain death. His hand had been firm on the nape of her neck, that grounding touch that kept her putting one foot in front of the other all the way to the hospital wing, where he had made Darcy tell Madam Pomfrey what she’d done. Darcy had only told her about the lake, leaving out the parts involving Harry and what he’d seen in Dumbledore’s memories and heard from Dumbledore’s own mouth. She hadn’t told the matron why she’d done it, but begged her not to tell Harry—begged her not to tell even Hermione or Ron or Carla, to which Madam Pomfrey reluctantly agreed.

Madam Pomfrey had moved even quicker than when Darcy had approached her the night Lupin had attacked her. Her hands had jumped to Darcy’s tired face, an apologetic and sad look to her. She’d given Darcy a potion that doused the fire raging in her chest, a Calming Draught, had relieved the aching in her wrists from the cords that pulled her to surface, and asked Professor Snape to escort her back to her private rooms to get some rest.

Darcy wraps the blanket around her shoulders tighter, still exhausted from the night’s events, Snape still walking close at her side without speaking. The corridors are quiet and empty now, students returned to their common rooms to finish homework and laugh and joke with their friends. How she envies them—all of them—ignorant and happy, their only stress the stress of the upcoming exams.

“Are you going to tell Professor Dumbledore?”

Snape looks down his hooked nose at her curiously. “I must. The Headmaster must know what happened tonight.”

The prospect of Dumbledore knowing what she’s done makes her cry again. And then, in seemingly no time at all, Darcy is giving her portrait the password to her apartments, and the door is swinging open to admit her, and Lupin slowly rises to his feet from the sofa, beyond shocked and confused as Darcy and Snape cross the threshold together. Perhaps it was their recent conversation about Snape being a Death Eater that seems to have thrown him off the most, or perhaps something else entirely. Lupin drinks in her appearance, running a hand through his hair, running his hand down his face while examining her—her hair still wet and curled and tangled, eyes swollen and bloodshot, a scratchy blanket pulled tight around her, Snape’s hand on the nape of her neck. His eyes rove her entire face, her entire body, linger on the firm hand squeezing Darcy’s neck gently.

Lupin smiles weakly, a nervous smile. “What’s going on? Where’ve you been, Darcy?”

Snape doesn’t make Darcy tell Lupin. She hates him for it, more than she already does— _do I really hate him, though?_ —because she knows Snape is only telling Lupin himself to make it known he had saved her life again, to throw it in Lupin’s face. But Darcy doesn’t have the energy to be angry at him right now—it’s _tiring_ always being angry with Snape, she thinks. He tells Lupin how he’d followed her from the Great Hall as he finished dinner, saw her head disappear beneath the lake, and when she hadn’t surfaced long after she should have, Snape had pulled her to the bank. Darcy looks at her shoes the entire time, too ashamed to look Lupin in the eyes as Snape finishes his story.

“Rest, Darcy,” Snape tells her finally, his hand falling from her neck. She looks up into his face with a blank expression, unsure of what to say to him. “I will not expect you in classes tomorrow.” And with that, he leaves the two of them in her room.

Lupin stands stock still for a moment, and when Darcy finally lifts her eyes to meet his, his face is drained of all color, his jaw clenched. “Sit down, my love,” he pleads quietly, motioning towards the sofa. “Please, come here.”

“I want a bath,” she rasps, her voice barely there.

He opens and closes his mouth wordlessly for a moment. “Maybe you should sit for a minute,” he urges, taking a few steps closer to her. “You’re still wet from the lake.”

“I want a bath,” she repeats, sniffling and wiping her cheeks with the blanket.

Without waiting for an answer, Darcy makes her way to the back room, dropping the blanket on the floor and starting the bath water. She makes it hot, so hot that it nearly burns her when her fingertips test the temperature. Lupin follows, watching from the doorway as she strips down to nothing, stepping out of her shorts and hesitating before getting into the water. The heat of the bath water is such a stark contrast to the icy chill the lake has instilled in her bones. Slowly, Lupin reaches for his wand, conjuring a chair and sitting beside the tub, looking down at her with a look that seems to Darcy to be disbelief, or worry, or hurt—or maybe all three of those things and more. It’s a look she’s never seen on him before, and it’s a look she has no desire to see on him again.

She sinks into the water to soak her hair, making sure to keep her face above the water, to get the smell of lake out of it. When she rises again, Lupin moves closer, clearly at a loss for words—a first, it seems. “Darcy,” he whispers after a long time. “Why?”

“I—didn’t want to die,” she answers softly, allowing Lupin to wring her hair out with gentle hands. “I just wanted everything to stop for a little while. When I thought I was going to—I was drowning, and I didn’t want to die.” Darcy begins to scrub at her skin, at first only lightly, but then hard—scrubbing the smell of the lake off her, scrubbing away the disgust she feels at the idea of what she’s done, scrubbing away Snape’s touch and her feelings of guilt and the hurt of everything—why does everything hurt all the time? She scrubs for a long time at every inch of skin she can, until her skin turns bright pink and raw and it starts to sting—but a good sting, a painful sting, and she scrubs so hard that tiny beads of blood appear as she breaks the skin—

“Darcy, stop— _stop_ ,” Lupin commands, reaching for the cloth and tearing it from her hands. Their brief struggle causes water to spill over the sides of the tub, but neither of them make a move to clean it. “Look at me, Darcy. Please, look at me.”

Breathing heavily, her knees pulled to her chest, Darcy looks at him. It’s a fierce look she gives him—a reluctant one that is full of shame and embarrassment. Lupin frowns, placing a hand on her cheek and leaning forward to kiss her. He hesitates, but runs the cloth over her skin, gently over the places where Darcy’s rubbed too hard. When he finishes washing everywhere that he can reach and Darcy’s satisfied, she asks him to read to her, and he does. She turns to face him in the bath, watching him carefully as he reads to her in a flat voice—skipping around to read her favorite poems, the ones that have always made her smile, and the ones she’s never tired of hearing. And finally, Lupin closes the book, resting it in his lap.

“What if you hadn’t come back?” he whispers, shaking his head and giving her a single look that pains her. Lupin’s fingers glide over her face, touching her as he’d touched her a year ago, when Darcy had come to him the night she told him she loved him. The most loving touch she’s ever known—a touch to remind him it’s real. His forehead rests against hers, and Darcy closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“No, you—” He inhales deeply, pulling away from her. Darcy’s eyes flutter open again and she feels the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes again. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You should know that by now. Please, get out of the bath. Come lie down with me.”

Darcy nods, and Lupin helps her out of the bathtub. She’s still unsteady on her feet, feeling weak and tired, as if she’s been awake for days on end. Darcy digs around for new clothes, wanting nothing more than to burn the ones she’d almost drowned in. She leaves them on the bathroom floor and allows Lupin to lead her back to the sofa, in front of the warm and comforting fire. Darcy lets him brush her hair, and he apologizes when he tells her he doesn’t really know how to do anything special with it, just like he knows she likes. He works out the tangles and knots the lake water had caused, her hair much longer than she’d thought. It reaches near the middle of her back now, heavy on her head, probably with a few strands of premature gray hair. Emily had found one on Darcy when they were still students, during their last year, and Darcy had been horrified, begging Emily to pluck it out. Now she wouldn’t care if there were hundreds of gray hairs.

Afterwards, Darcy lays her head in Lupin’s lap, and he throws a blanket over her, allowing her to get comfortable. She closes her eyes, wondering how many nights she’ll be able to do this—how many nights she has left with him until Voldemort ruins everything, just like he’d ruined her family and Neville’s family and Emily’s family and even Gemma’s family. Voldemort is getting stronger—was able to torture Peter Pettigrew somehow. _Harry’s right. This is bigger than the Triwizard Tournament. This is so much bigger than that._

Darcy clears her throat softly, and feels Lupin’s fingers comb through her hair. “I need you to know,” she says, frowning, “that if I am made to choose between you or Harry—it will be Harry, every time.” When he doesn’t answer, she continues. “It’s why I can’t marry you. It’s why I’m still here—at Hogwarts.”

Lupin shifts in his seat, and Darcy sits up. “You don’t have to do this on your own.”

She wants to tell him it’s not about doing it alone—she wants to tell him it’s about the family that was taken from her, how it had begun for her and Harry in his crib that night it all happened, and how it will eventually end the same way—together. Either she will die fighting at her brother’s side, or they will live and Darcy will finally be able to have the life she’s always wanted. But she doesn’t get the chance to say those things because the door opens again. Darcy turns quickly, expecting Snape to walk back through, or Dumbledore—she even expects Harry to walk through, knowing that Madam Pomfrey will likely tell him that something is wrong.

But it’s none of those people. It’s Gemma, still clad in her St Mungo’s robes with her hair piled on top of her head, looking slightly disheveled. Darcy can’t help but to smile because _of course_ Madam Pomfrey would have told Gemma. “Madam Pomfrey used the Floo Network to contact St Mungo’s,” she explains breathlessly, as if she’d just run all the way. “She said there was an emergency and I came right away—Darcy, what were you thinking?”

Gemma races to Darcy’s side, wrapping her arms around her neck and squeezing. Darcy hugs her back, falling into Gemma, the smell of her perfume overwhelming her. She can’t help but notice there’s a faint smell of blood to Gemma, as well—likely what the perfume is trying to hard to mask—and when Darcy pulls away and holds Gemma’s hands in her own, she sees dried blood on her fingers, as well.

“I hope you weren’t in the middle of anything,” Darcy says, feeling guilty again. “If you have to go back, you should go.”

“No—no, it’s fine. It’s taken care of. I should be here.”

But Darcy doesn’t feel much like talking about her feelings, or recounting the story to Gemma. Instead, she decides to resign to bed, hoping sleep will ease the pain she still feels. Lupin rises to accompany her, but Gemma forces him back down on the sofa, insisting she’ll go instead. When Darcy crawls under the blankets and closes her eyes, Gemma opens the window above her bed.

“Can I smoke in here? It’s been a long day.”

“Yes.”

Gemma smokes in silence, laying on top of the blankets and occasionally sighing. After a while, Darcy feigns sleep, hoping Gemma won’t start asking questions in the blunt manner that Darcy really doesn’t care to hear at the moment. She breathes heavily, her back to Gemma as she finishes her cigarette.

“Darcy?” Gemma whispers. “Darcy, you awake?”

Darcy closes her eyes tighter, not answering. She feels Gemma shift on the bed and run her fingers through Darcy’s hair. Through barely opened eyes, she watches Gemma leave the bedroom, leaving the door to the living area cracked open. She hears Gemma sigh loudly again— _how many times can a girl sigh?_ she asks herself, gritting her teeth. The sound makes her feel like Gemma is exasperated with her, like this is just another stupid thing she’s done. The sofa groans as Gemma sits down upon it.

“What does Darcy have to drink around here?” Gemma asks Lupin, chuckling weakly.

“Firewhisky,” Lupin replies, and the sound of a glass being slid across the coffee table follows. “Drink up. Give me one of those.”

Gemma hums in reply, and Darcy hears the sound of a lighter flick. She tries to will herself to go to sleep, wanting to close the door but not wanting to reveal that she’s awake. All she knows is that she doesn’t want to hear whatever conversation is about to happen—she knows that, sooner or later, Lupin will tell Gemma what happened, and he does, much sooner than she expected. With the smell of smoke lingering in the bedroom, the scent of Gemma’s perfume still on the pillow, and the fire cracking in the distance, Lupin tells Gemma of their conversation with Harry and the result of that conversation, how Darcy had run after her brother, and what Snape had told him when he’d brought Darcy back. Gemma’s quiet throughout the entire thing—always an excellent audience for a long story—and there are a few more flicks of her lighter, some clinking as glasses are refilled.

“She’s always been like that,” Gemma whispers after a few moments of silence. “Darcy’s never gotten the help that she needed, and now it’s spilling out. I see it all the time at St Mungo’s.”

Lupin doesn’t answer.

“Look, I’ve known Darcy a lot longer than you—kind of, anyway.” Gemma sighs heavily again, setting her drink down on the table. “I remember the days after Darcy had gone into the Chamber of Secrets. I thought that was going to be it—the thing to break her. You softened the blow when you came, but you can’t fix her. This was always going to happen eventually. Don’t act like you didn’t see something like this coming.”

Darcy almost scoffs, but Gemma’s words hurt—talking about her as if she’s crazy, as if this was always going to happen, as if anyone else in her position wouldn’t struggle from time to time. But it’s true—the Chamber of Secrets had troubled her much more than it troubled Harry or Ron or Ginny (not that Darcy’s eager to bring up the topic around her, so she can’t be sure how Ginny feels about it now). She had thought she was going to die down there with her brother at the mercy of Voldemort’s creature, she had thought her brother was going to die after being bitten and Darcy had held him as the venom spread, and the experience had brought back her nightmares, had made her thrash at night as she dreamt of the basilisk, of Voldemort, of the scream the diary made when Harry had stabbed at it.

Still, Lupin is quiet. There’s the splashing of liquid, the refilling of a glass. Another flick of a light and the heavy scent of smoke. “Severus loves her,” he says finally, in a choked voice. “Like he did her mother.”

“He’s vile,” Gemma replies quickly, before Lupin even finishes speaking. “Maybe he’s not as cruel to her as to others, but she still recognizes that he’s cruel. Come on—a man shows Darcy an ounce of affection and she clings to him. Mr. Weasley, Snape—look at Ludo Bagman.”

Darcy feels a pain shoot through her heart.

Even without seeing him—just from his tone of voice—Darcy can picture the scowl on his face. “Don’t speak to me about Ludo Bagman.” Lupin exhales a shaky breath. “It’s all I think about sometimes—I’m alone, while Darcy spends her time in a classroom with Snape more than half the day. And don’t think I’ve forgotten he relishes the fact that he saved her life from _me_. All I have to do is look at his face to know he holds that over me. He’s there for her, able to be with her, while I’m forced into hiding, unable to provide for her.”

Gemma mumbles something and chuckles. Lupin joins her for a moment, his laughter forced and mirthless. Then, they go quiet again.

“How dare he put hands on her,” Lupin says again after a minute. “How dare he touch her as if she belongs to him. If she knew what he was like during school, she would never allow him to touch her, but she’s hellbent on defending him.”

Darcy’s shoulder starts to ache and she rolls over slowly, able to see the coffee table through the doorway. The flames cast it half in light and half in a smoky shadow, but she sees Gemma refill her glass. She thinks they’re being a bit harsh with her—and Snape. Darcy doesn’t exactly enjoy the feeling of Snape’s hands on her, so often a hand clamped on the nape of her neck or on her shoulder, but she wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s anything romantic. _Is it? Snape danced with me—would he have danced with anyone else?_ She’s curious now, wondering what Lupin could possibly say to discredit Snape. He’d been so determined on defending Snape, as well, when Sirius decided to bring up the old grudge. _What is he hiding?_

“I fought with myself for a long time last year,” he confesses, and Darcy’s stomach churns. She’s in slight disbelief that Lupin feels so comfortable around Gemma and is so open and vulnerable. “I told Dumbledore before I resigned what had happened—what my lack of self-control and conviction had done, and he sat there—sympathetic, of course—and threw in my face every doubt that I’d had throughout the year. I had betrayed James and Lily by taking advantage of Darcy’s trust in me. I had betrayed Dumbledore’s trust, and Sirius’s—I had taken advantage of Darcy’s kindness and loneliness.”

This time, it’s Gemma’s turn to be quiet. Darcy wonders if she’s just listening, digesting the information, or if she truly doesn’t know what to say. It’s not often that Gemma is left speechless.

“I was lonely—so lonely,” he says quietly, letting out a bitter laugh. “It had been years since I’d known a woman’s touch—a woman’s love. And Darcy was there, willing to love me, so easy to love. She blushed whenever I smiled at her, whenever I kissed her, was so eager to spend time with me—begged me to kiss her just once when I hadn’t for a while.” Darcy shuts her eyes tight, praying for sleep. “And now she seeks comfort from other men, while being mocked and humiliated by others for the sole reason of loving me—because of what I am.”

“She misses her father,” Gemma says, in a soothing voice, ignoring his last comment completely. “That’s all she wants. If Darcy wants that from Snape, then let her have that if he’s willing to be that for her.” Someone fumbles with a lighter, and it must be Lupin, for Gemma adds, “Stop, you look like a fool. Here.”

“She has Sirius back now,” Lupin snarls. “He loves her very much—”

“It doesn’t matter how much he loves her—he isn’t here to hold her or wipe her tears or do any of those things—”

“Has Severus?” Lupin asks wildly, as if caught off guard by Gemma’s statement, and there’s a bite to his tone, a sharpness that had not been present a moment ago. “Has he done any of those things?”

Gemma releases a soft chuckle. “Has Snape been there for her during times when she has needed comfort?” she says slowly, softly, almost teasing. “Yes, of course he has. You’re a fool to think otherwise.”

Lupin jumps to his feet and begins to pace, the soft thumping of his footsteps echoing in Darcy’s head. “He wants her,” he hisses at Gemma. “Have I not done enough that she must run to him for comfort? What have I done to deserve that? What kind of man would I be if I lost her to the likes of Severus?”

“Ah, so this is less about Snape and more about your fragile masculinity?” Gemma hums, and Darcy sighs inwardly, frustrated with Gemma’s uncouthness, but it doesn’t seem to affect Lupin.

“If anything were to happen to her, I—” He lets out a muffled groan, seemingly into his hands. “I have lost so much already, I cannot lose her—not to another man, or—whatever the hell she pulled tonight.” And then Darcy freezes, her heart hammering as the sounds of soft cries come from beyond the door, still muffled against his hands. “She left to go after Harry—and next I see her, she walks in with Severus—and to think I could have never seen her again, just like her parents—just like James and Lily—”

Darcy lays awake for a long time listening to their conversation. They’ve stopped drinking, it seems, and the lighter doesn’t flick as often after a while. The conversation lightens thankfully, as Gemma tells him about the long day she’d had at St Mungo’s, and Lupin praises her dissertation on werewolves and her experiment and research, to which Gemma happily thanks him multiple times. And when it grows late into the night, Lupin offers to sleep on the sofa so Gemma can sleep with Darcy, but Gemma politely refuses.

“No,” she says sweetly. “Go on, you. It’s not me she wants to hold her at night.”

She lays very still as Lupin sneaks into the bedroom and closes the door behind him as Gemma cleans up their mess. He moves slowly about the room, picking up Darcy’s discarded clothes from the bathroom floor, shedding some of his own clothes. When he finally slips into bed next to Darcy, she can the sheer warmth of his body warms her own cold bones. He puts a hand on her cheek, smoothing her hair back softly, and kisses the corner of her lips. Surprisingly, a small smile tugs at Darcy’s lips, and Lupin tastes of firewhisky and smoke.

“Did I wake you?” he breathes in her ear, sending goosebumps down her spine.

“It’s all right.”

“Promise me that you’re mine,” Lupin whispers, an arm sneaking around her to hold her tight.

“I’m yours,” she answers. Without thinking, almost lazily, Darcy puts a hand on his bare stomach, fingertips trailing down past his navel—but Lupin inhales sharply and his hand catches her wrist, moving her hand away from him. “What? Don’t you want me?”

“No—I mean, of course I—” Lupin clears his throat. “Not tonight, Darcy. You should get some sleep.”

She frowns, feeling the urge to cry, but there are no tears left in her. _They think I’m weak,_ she thinks. _They think I’m to be pitied—a little girl searching for her father in others. They think I’m crazy—that I was a bomb threatening to go off at any time._

Darcy’s heart begins to race. _No more. I can take care of myself. They’ll see—I can be a Gryffindor. I can be a lion_. She puts a hand on his cheek, kissing him hard. Lupin kisses her back, perhaps not as enthusiastically as she would like, but hesitantly, almost reluctantly. He breaks the kiss himself, avoiding Darcy’s lips when she tries to kiss him again.

“Darcy,” he says again, a little less confidently and a little less firmly, “you should get some rest. You’ve had a long day.”

She scrunches her nose, rolling over with her back to him. Lupin’s body relaxes, his shoulders slumping, burying his face into her scarred shoulder and placing a soft kiss there. His face is wet against her skin.

_They’ll see._

* * *

Despite Snape having told her not to worry about coming to class, and despite Lupin’s well-meaning protests when she dresses for class the following morning, Darcy skips breakfast and takes herself directly to the dungeon classroom. Encountering Peeves on the way (and thankfully escaping unharmed), Darcy arrives a few minutes late to the first class, a group of second year Gryffindors and Slytherins, and slips in the door without drawing too much attraction. Snape, who is in the middle of a droning lecture, stops abruptly at the sight of her. “Darcy,” he says, confused. The other students turn to look at her and Darcy blushes, joining Snape at the front of the classroom. He quickly returns to his lecture, giving his students a fierce and cold gaze.

In between classes, Snape tries to urge her to return to her room, that she need not be here today, but Darcy stands her ground. “I’m fine, and I want to teach the first years,” she says sharply, and when Snape reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder, Darcy flinches away, scowling. “Don’t touch me.”

Snape does let her teach the first years. She musters as big a smile as she can as they file into the classroom, looking rather glum. Calling them all to the front of the class to examine a potion she’s been working on, Darcy makes them giggle and smile and seem slightly happier to be in class. She wishes Lupin could be here to see it—her in her element, the one thing at Hogwarts that seems to bring her real joy. Halfway through the lesson, as Darcy introduces some new ingredients the first years will learn about next year, the door opens again and Dumbledore walks serenely into the classroom, taking a seat at an empty desk at the back. He smiles at her from across the classroom, listening politely, and doesn’t interrupt once until the bell rings and Darcy sends them off to lunch.

Dumbledore waits for the students to leave, nodding at some in acknowledgement with a warm smile until he’s left with Darcy and Snape. That’s when Dumbledore finally gets to his feet. “Severus—if you would give us a moment alone.”

Snape hesitates, inclining his head towards the Headmaster and giving Darcy what almost looks to be an apologetic look. She seats herself at his desk, feeling very much in power—in control—and Dumbledore sits atop the front most desk, flattening the front of his lilac robes.

“I was surprised to find you not with Remus this morning,” he begins, holding his hands in his lap. “I confess—I thought you might have taken a day off.”

“I haven’t taken a day off since I’ve started, sir,” Darcy notes, very proud of that fact. “And anyway, I like it in here.”

Darcy drums her fingertips on the top of Snape’s desk, waiting for Dumbledore to continue. “Darcy, I want to express my deepest sympathies. I am beyond disappointed in myself that you have come to resent Hogwarts so much you felt that walking into the Black Lake was the most viable solution. I should have done more, and I thought I did enough. I would hear you now, anything you have to say. What can I do to make you more at home here? Be honest with me, Darcy, and if it is within my power, I will make it so.”

“I want to leave.”

Dumbledore smiles weakly, as if he’d known she was going to say that. He opens his hands and shakes his head. “Alas,” he says. “That cannot be done. Perhaps we could relocate you to a different room? A change of scenery may do you good. I know just the place, with a window that overlooks the beautiful mountains. I could tell the house-elves in the kitchens to cook only your favorite foods for the rest of the year, or perhaps you’d like a cat to keep you company during the evenings Remus isn’t here?”

Darcy only looks at him, her eyes slightly narrowed. _A cat?_ she thinks. _Why would I want a cat? I’d rather a dog—a big, black, shaggy dog that’s currently living outside Hogsmeade._ Dumbledore’s suggestions irritate Darcy and she grinds her teeth, thinking hard.

“And before you ask,” he continues wearily. “I cannot give Remus a job back, not with the backlash I have been receiving recently regarding our dear Hagrid, and now the Minister of Magic suspects foul play at the hands of Madame Maxime… I’m sure you understand _why_ he thinks such an absurd thing.”

She does, and nods to show it. “I appreciate your concern, Professor,” she finally answers slowly, rising from her seat to indicate she’s done with this conversation. “But there is nothing you can do for me.”

Dumbledore tilts his head, amused. “I’m going to venture a guess and assume Harry told you all about what he saw in the Pensieve?”

“Yes, sir,” she says, feeling it quite pointless to lie. “He came to me that night while Remus was with me.”

“And I’m going to assume again that one of the topics that likely upset you was Professor Snape?”

Darcy looks away sheepishly, sitting back in the chair. “Yes, sir.”

“You had not told Harry prior that it was, indeed, the Dark Mark you saw upon Professor Karkaroff’s arm that day?”

She meets his eyes again. “No, sir.” And, feeling it best to explain herself, Darcy continues quickly. “I was—afraid of what conclusions Harry might jump to about Professor Snape.”

Dumbledore looks at her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time. His gaze makes her feel incredibly small, and Darcy shrinks back into her chair, feeling naked. “Darcy, my dear,” he sighs. “What could have possibly possessed you to walk into the Black Lake?”

She doesn’t have an answer, nor can she lie. Words don’t come easy to her in regards to his question. “I don’t know what came over me, Professor,” she says honestly. “I promise it won’t happen again. It’s just—” Darcy hesitates, and Dumbledore gives her a reassuring nod, urging her to continue. “Sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. It’s all so difficult, and… how do I know that I’m making the right choices?”

“It speaks to someone’s character—the decisions they make when faced with choices such as you’ve faced,” Dumbledore muses. “To protect the last of your family—Harry, who needs you, who is in danger—at great cost to your own happiness and freedom, or pursue your own future with Remus because it is the easier and—truthfully—the much more appealing choice?”

Darcy bites down on her lower lip. “Why does it make me such a coward to choose a normal, happy life over the life I am living here?”

“It does not make you a coward, Darcy,” Dumbledore smiles, his eyes shining even in the gloom of the dark classroom. “It makes you human.” He looks pensively at her for a moment, leaning forward over the desk. “Voldemort grows stronger with each passing minute—it is no secret to you anymore. Soon, you will not be the only person who must choose between what is easy and what is right.”

“It’s hard to make those choices. Why must I surrender my own happiness because of things out of my control?” Darcy asks desperately, needing a solid answer, needing reassurance that everything will be all right.

“It’s hard because you’ve tasted freedom now,” Dumbledore explains, looking quite sad for her. “You’ve had a taste of what a normal life with Remus could be—you’ve been exposed to love that you’ve sorely lacked for years. You’ve been exposed to what a home is supposed to be. I do not blame you for struggling—on the contrary, I applaud you for struggling, because it means you recognize the _right_ choice as opposed to the easy one.” As Darcy takes in his words, trying to make sense of the dizzying way he speaks almost in riddles, Dumbledore leans forward a little more. “I know that I say it often, but I _am_ proud of you, Darcy. You have exceeded my expectations in every way and you are an extraordinary young woman.”

Darcy smiles weakly, her cheeks turning pink. She’s sure he’s only saying that to make her feel better, but it does feel damn good to hear it being said to her.

“I must ask you one last thing before I take my leave,” he adds, the chair creaking beneath him as Dumbledore gets to his feet. “Have you been kind to Professor Snape?”

She nods, knowing it’s the truth—for the most part. “Yes, Professor, I have.”

“And has he been kind to you?”

She falters for a moment. He _has_ been kind to her, but Lupin’s fears about Snape—spoken in confidence to Gemma the previous night—have given Darcy a strange feeling. To know that the only reason he’s being kind to her may be because he loves her… _he doesn’t love me like he loved my mother,_ she thinks. _He wouldn’t._

“Yes, Professor,” she answers after a long pause. “He has.”

 


	55. Chapter 55

Darcy doesn’t bring up the incident after her conversation with Dumbledore. Dumbledore has allowed Lupin another day a week at Hogwarts if he’d like it, and so things begin to brighten. Snape seems to walk on eggshells around her during classes, as if he raises his voice just barely, she’ll break (not that she quite minds). Madam Pomfrey has also kept her promise not to tell her brother, for Harry—completely ignorant to it all—apologizes to her and offers a hug, spending a bit more time with her as he prepares for the third task and as Hermione and Ron prepare for exams. Hermione takes every opportunity to ask Darcy questions relating to Potions, what might be on the exam, the things she’ll need to study the most. Darcy helps as best she can, glad that Hermione doesn’t look at her with pity in her eyes or brings up the night Darcy tried to drown herself. On nights that Lupin isn’t at Hogwarts and Gemma isn’t working, Harry and his friends hide away in her hidden apartment, looking up spells that could come in handy for the third task. This cheers Darcy immensely, and she’s rather confident about the task—even Harry is confident about it, having fought his way through strange creatures and smaller tasks before.

Lupin and Gemma don’t speak about the incident outloud, taking Darcy’s lead, but she does notice during the times the three of them are together that they share a few more sideways glances than usual. Darcy feigns ignorance to it most days, still reeling from their conversation, but not wanting to reveal that she’d heard anything. Lupin touches her a bit more gently, a bit more often, and a bit more innocently—touching her like fragile china. She enjoys the soft kisses pressed to her temple at random times, in front of her brother and their friends, even blushing like a schoolgirl whenever Lupin smiles at her, making butterflies erupt in her stomach. Gemma doesn’t fret as much as Emily would, but she checks in on Darcy slightly more than she thinks necessary, but she doesn’t quite mind it. She even suggests they go on a holiday during the summer—just to the beach or to the countryside for a few days to get their minds off everything. The idea is enough to keep Darcy going for the rest of the school year and she and Gemma plan with frantic attitudes about all the things they could do.

Her favorite nights are the ones where everyone keeps her company in her own room. Harry and Hermione and Ron, Lupin and Gemma—her family of sorts, the people that she loves the most, all sitting in close confines sharing food and drink and laughing and joking. Hermione takes these opportunities to pester Lupin, as well, with questions about Defense Against the Dark Arts. Darcy politely urges Hermione to leave him be, but Lupin doesn’t mind, explaining theory and spells and opinions with anyone who’s willing to hear them. Darcy always watches him with a small smile on her face as he goes over homework answers and does what he’s best at—or rather, one of the things he’s best at—teaching.

Sirius begins to correspond with both she and Harry regularly, as well, and after the fifth letter with almost the same contents as the others ( _Keep an eye on Harry. Teach him spells. Help him survive this last task so I can breathe easy, so I can sleep at night._ ), Darcy marches down to Hogsmeade that very night—alone—to ask him to stop sending letters. He’s taken aback by this at first, and then goes on the offensive.

“I told you I didn’t want you coming down here alone,” he growls, ignoring her request.

“You’re setting my teeth on edge with your letters!” Darcy protests, trying to remain calm. “I’m taking care of Harry—I always have—so quit worrying so much!”

Sirius touches her shoulders, cups her face in his hands. They’re rough and calloused and lack much warmth—or perhaps she’s just gotten so used to Lupin’s touch. But Darcy closes her eyes, nuzzling into his palm and remembering days waking from dreams with the overwhelming feeling of being loved. “We haven’t had much time alone,” he whispers to her. “I’m sorry. When this is all over—we’ll be a family, Darcy. You, me, and Harry.”

Darcy touches his hands, holding onto them tight. She wants to tell him what happened, but that would mean confessing that Snape had saved her, and she doesn’t really care to bring up Snape in her godfather’s presence. She remembers what Lupin had told Gemma after she’d talked about Darcy missing her father— _he loves her very much_. Darcy loves him too, she thinks, but the words don’t come as easily as she wishes they would. She wishes she knew how to act—how much is too much affection for someone who has craved it for so long? Darcy doesn’t think it would seem very appropriate to ask her godfather to kiss her, to hug her, to hold her, to make up for all the years he’d been gone—for all the years she’d lived without her father. How would Sirius even respond if she told him she loved him when he’d been gone and out of her life for over a decade? How long would it take to rebuild the relationship they would have had if Sirius hadn’t been sent to Azkaban?

“I miss my father,” Darcy says instead. Sirius lowers his hands from her face, still holding onto hers right. She wonders if being alone in Azkaban for so long made Sirius crave human touch—affection—as much as she. “Did he love me, Sirius?”

“More than anything in this world,” Sirius whispers, and he kisses her head, much the same way Ludo Bagman would.

And so the weeks go on, and Darcy continues to teach the first years with gusto and enthusiasm and a smile on her face. She sees less of Ludo Bagman as the tournament comes to its end, and while she wishes they could have dinner together—if only to distract her from school stress—she thinks it’s better that way after hearing Lupin’s retort about him the night he’d spoken with Gemma.

For a time, she’s able to have the best of both worlds—to be with her brother and his friends, all of whom she loves like her own sister and other brother, and to be with Lupin and Gemma at the same time. Laughter always accompanies the evenings she spends with her best friend and Lupin, and she looks forward to those the most sometimes.

But she can _breathe_ again. And that’s all that matters.

* * *

“You sure about this, Hermione?”

“For the hundredth time—yes! Just get ready!”

“Care to make a wager, mate?” Ron asks, nudging Harry in the ribs and grinning. “No offense, Hermione, but my money’s on Darcy.”

“Same,” Harry chuckles.

Hermione’s face reddens, and Gemma laughs heartily, placing her hands on Hermione’s shoulders. “I’ve got a Galleon on you, Hermione,” she says. Darcy smiles at her friend from across the room, shaking her head and laughing along. “Now listen, Darcy’s quite good at non-verbal spells, so be quick, my little lion. She likes her Charms, too, so be careful.”

“I taught Darcy, Hermione,” Lupin jokes, mimicking Gemma and putting his hands on Darcy’s shoulders. His thumb brushes over the scars on her left shoulder for a moment. “Maybe you should reconsider.”

“Get ready, Darcy,” Hermione says again, ignoring Lupin completely. He and Gemma release their grips on their respective duelers, and Hermione begins almost immediately. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Darcy blocks it without saying the words and with a lazy flick of her wand, but doesn’t cast another spell.

“ _Stupefy_!”

She blocks it again, grinning. “Come on, Darcy! Show us a cool spell!” Ron cheers, making Hermione scowl.

“ _Impedimenta_!”

Darcy lifts her wand and the spell falls flat a good distance from her. With another quick flick of her wand as Hermione opens her mouth, Hermione’s wand flies up into the air and clatters to the ground out of sight. “Good try, Hermione,” Darcy shrugs. “Maybe next time.”

As she turns to smile at Lupin, something hits her in the back, sending a tingle up her spine, down her arms to her fingers, down her legs—tickling her. Without warning, Darcy crashes to the floor, the tickling sensation not letting up, making her howl with laughter. She lifts her head, still laughing, to find Gemma slipping her wand back into her pocket, shrugging casually and raising her eyebrows. When Lupin so kindly lifts the jinx, Darcy sends a Jelly-Legs Jinx back at Gemma, and while she dances wildly around the room, falling onto her back like a crab, her legs still flailing, the door to the empty classrooms crashes open.

“ _Potter_!” Comes a sharp voice. Darcy quickly lifts the jinx off Gemma, leaving her heaving on the floor, chuckling. Professor McGonagall looks them all over, muttering to herself. “I don’t know what I expected from the lot of you…”

“Sorry, Professor,” Darcy says quickly, her cheeks still flushed from laughter.

“Right, well—you three—” She gives a pointed nod to Harry, Hermione, and Ron, “—back to your common room. As for the rest of you—isn’t there _anything_ else for you to do besides duel students in empty classrooms?”

“It was Hermione’s idea, Professor,” Gemma adds, giving McGonagall a very sweet look.

Professor McGonagall gives Gemma a very stern look before turning to leave, glancing over her shoulder once more as she crosses the threshold. “Potter, stop slouching.”

Darcy frowns, straightening up as the door closes on them. She turns back to Lupin and is surprised to see him flashing a wide smile. “What a familiar scene. She still says the word ‘Potter’ with such—exasperation,” he chuckles, rubbing his chin.

* * *

“It was awful—Professor McGonagall made up pick up the cigarette butts by hand and then made us count the ones we’d cleaned up.”

“You had to count them?”

“A detention for each butt we had,” Darcy explains, waving her fork around airily. Lupin watches her, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, amused. “Emily had the most butts—she was serving detentions well into the next month.”

“All right,” Lupin smiles, setting his fork and knife down and leaning back in his seat. “Sixth year, in the common room—a party after a particularly good Quidditch match. James happened to get particularly drunk, and when Professor McGonagall stormed in the common room—as she does—he vomited all at her feet.”

“I’ve never done _that_ ,” Darcy giggles, scrunching her nose at the thought of her teenage father so horribly drunk. “Did she give him a detention?”

“A detention for each second it took him to clean the mess from the floor and her shoes.”

They both laugh softly. “Am I like him?” she asks.

“More than you know,” Lupin answers, smiling at her.

Darcy swells with pride, her cheeks flushing. “Tell me about her,” Darcy says, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me about this mystery girl.”

“There’s nothing mysterious about her.” For a moment, Darcy’s stunned at how easily Lupin submits to her. His voice is casual instead of sheepish, and he continues. “In fact, I think you’d find the situation quite familiar.”

“How so?” She gives him a curious look.

“I only mean it’s not a very interesting story—just one that involves alcohol, and a girl who didn’t mind running off to kiss me in a broom closet. Until we were so rudely interrupted by Professor McGonagall. Though—it was only kissing. What you did in those broom closets with Oliver Wood was far worse, I think.”

Darcy’s cheeks turn painfully pink and she stuffs some food in her mouth for something to do. She swallows loud. “You know that I was thinking of you,” she admits.

Lupin continues to smile at her, his elbow on the table, his cheek resting upon his knuckles. “Of course.” He reaches down for his fork again, picking at his food. “Now you know all my secrets.”

“I’m sure there are some still tucked away in some deep corner of your heart,” Darcy teases softly.

“As if you’re not hiding away some deep dark secrets of your own?” Lupin asks, not unkindly. “I’ll get them out of you eventually.”

“You’ve always been quite good at getting secrets out of me, haven’t you?” Darcy sighs contently. “All you have to do is sit there and look pretty and it all comes spilling out of me.”

“Like this?” Lupin gives her a very serious look, but he can only hold it for so long before he smiles again, laughing at the sight of Darcy’s own smile.

“Yeah,” she chuckles. “Like that.”

* * *

“Oh, I can’t watch anymore! Do you _have_ to use these spells on Darcy?”

“Hey, she _volunteered_ , Hermione—not that I’m complaining. I think she’s been handling it well.”

“She’s likely going to have brain damage when Harry’s done practicing. Maybe one of us should take her place, just for a few turns. Ron—”

“No way!”

“Are you all right, Darcy?”

It takes Darcy a moment to return to her senses, to realize that Lupin’s hand is wrapped around hers, pulling her to her feet. The empty classroom spins around her and she’s unsteady on her feet, nearly falling backwards, but Lupin catches her, chuckling nervously. Her temple throbs, the back of her head feels cracked open. With one arm holding her around the waist, Lupin uses his free hand to brush the hair from her face, and then holds her cheeks to keep her head from lolling to the side.

“I know—that was a bad one,” he says, looking apologetic. “Are you all right? You hit your head on your way down. Can you say something, please?”

“I love you,” she says after a moment, blinking up into his face, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

Lupin laughs, letting go of her face. Darcy’s head does, in fact, loll slightly to the left. “Harry, you may have done a much better job with that spell than I think any of us anticipated,” he says, giving Harry, Hermione, and Ron all reassuring smiles. “Hermione, go fetch Gemma from the hospital wing, er—just to take a look.”

Hermione and Gemma return not long afterwards. Gemma races in, looking furious, with Hermione shying by the door, her face red. Gemma grabs Darcy from Lupin’s arms, and she stumbles into Gemma. “What were you boys _thinking_?” Gemma snaps, and with a single look at them all in turn, shames them, as well. Her eyes linger on Lupin, and he blushes very slightly. Slapping Darcy’s face gently, she sighs. “Tell me your name.”

“I know what my name is,” Darcy mutters, still slightly dizzy. “Shut up, Gemma.”

Gemma releases her with a smile. “She’s fine.” Huffing at the boys, Gemma straightens her robes. “Do not _ever_ let me hear that you’ve been practicing jinxes and hexes on your sister again, Harry Potter.”

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs, exasperated and rubbing the back of his neck.

When Gemma leaves them all with a last scoff, Ron rounds on Hermione. “Did you at least tell Gemma that Darcy _volunteered_ for this?”

“Are you all right?” Lupin whispers in her ear as Ron and Hermione begin to bicker. Darcy looks up and him and nods. “Maybe it was a mistake to send Hermione after Gemma—”

“I heard that!”

* * *

“So? How are you feeling? Third task is in a week.”

“I feel…” Darcy considers her, finally smiling, her mouth full of food. “I feel good about this, Gemma. Harry’s been learning so many new things, and Remus taught him a few hexes even I didn’t know.”

The Three Broomsticks is particularly busy today—many people have already come to Hogsmeade in preparation for the third task. Spectators, reporters, photographers, Ministry workers checking in on things. Madam Rosmerta is pouring mead for three handsome wizards that smile at her, the barman waves his wand and sends out a few glasses to some thirsty patrons. It’s easy to have a conversation with so many people around—so much noise makes it harder for people to hear, and Darcy feels like a private conversation is better than a public one. Gemma saws furiously at an overdone hunk of meat on her plate, animal-like, but when she takes a bite, she’s a graceful lady again.

“Are we going to talk about what happened?” Gemma asks suddenly, wiping her mouth with a stained napkin. “Or are we just going to keep on pretending it never happened?”

“I’m fine with the latter,” Darcy answers, smiling innocently at Gemma. Gemma gives her a stony gaze before returning to her dinner. “Were you going to tell me what you and Remus talked about the other night?”

“Don’t play the innocent girl, Darcy,” Gemma replies quietly, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “I know you were faking. Lupin says you snore when you sleep, and you weren’t snoring when I left the room.”

“I heard everything,” Darcy confesses, and it feels damn good to get it off her chest. She hadn’t been able to speak to anyone about it (except to herself during a bath or looking in the mirror), and part of her is amused that Gemma had known the whole time. “Snape does _not_ love me—and I do not cling to men at the slightest bit of affection, thank you very much.”

Gemma takes a long drink from her glass. “That’s all you got out of that?” she asks. “Out of everything you heard—that’s all you have to say?”

Darcy is quiet for a moment. There are a hundred things she wants to say—but not to Gemma. How can she possibly explain to Gemma how much she loves him? How ridiculous he’d been when voicing all of his doubts and concerns? _But maybe he’s not being ridiculous_ , she thinks. _He asked me to marry him and I refused because of my fourteen-year-old brother. I refuse to leave Hogwarts to be with him. I refuse to escape the impending war with him because I must be with Harry. Maybe it isn’t enough for him, even if it is for me._

Sensing Darcy’s hesitancy about discussing the topic, Gemma lifts her glass in a toast. “To Harry,” she says, clinking glasses with Darcy. “May he be the newest winner of the Triwizard Tournament.”

“To Harry.”

* * *

“Three days—three days— _three_ —”

“Yeah, no, I heard you the first time,” Harry chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Lupin says my Stunning is way better than some older students he taught last year, and Gemma taught me some hexes that might come in handy after the task, too.”

“I’ll want to double check a list of those hexes before you start using them at will,” she teases, handing Harry a new bottle of butterbeer.

Harry hesitates. “Gemma told me something funny about you the other day.”

“Oh?” Darcy raises her eyebrows. “And what did Gemma say about me?”

“She said to be nice to you,” Harry says.

She clears her throat, feeling a surge of affection for Gemma. “I’d say that’s a very good piece of advice,” she offers weakly, giving him a forced smile. “I don’t think it’s funny at all.”

“It’s not _what_ she said, I guess,” he admits, and Darcy listens closely. His eyes are fixed on her warily, as if he isn’t sure if he should say more. “It was more _how_ she said it. It was the day Hermione brought her back—when you hit your head.” When Darcy urges him silently to continue, Harry obliges. “She asked me if I was being nice to you, and I told her I was. And she just looked so— _sad_ , and she told me to be a good brother to you.”

“You are a good brother to me, Harry,” Darcy says, reaching out to smooth his hair. It only springs back up at the first instant. His hair has always done so, even as a little baby. “She knows the stress of the tournament has been weighing on me, that’s all.” She had decided the very night it happened that Harry would never know about what she’d done. Darcy still intends never to tell him.

“I’m not worried,” Harry tells her, confidently. “I can do this. We’ve been practicing for weeks, you’ve taught me spells—Darcy, this is the most prepared I could possibly be.”

“What will you do with your winnings?” Darcy asks him, and her change in subject lightens the mood. Harry’s face breaks into a wide grin, the corners of his eyes wrinkling behind his glasses. “Once you do win?”

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs, thinking hard and tapping his chin. “I’ve been thinking about it, but I don’t know. I’d buy you anything you wanted, first.”

Darcy blushes furiously, and Harry’s cheeks redden at the sight. “That’s very sweet of you, Harry,” she says breathlessly, giving him a fond look. “But I have money. Let’s just make sure you win the money first, yes?”

“I will.”

* * *

“Go to sleep.”

“But I can’t sleep.” Darcy touches his face, tracing a faint scar lightly with her fingertip. “Can I kiss you?”

“I think we’re far beyond the point of you having to ask.”

Darcy kisses him softly, nuzzling closer to him. “We could do something over the summer—we could go anywhere you want.”

Lupin hums in response, his eyes still shut.

“I think I’ve quite gotten used to you sleeping in my bed,” Darcy says again, hoping it will elicit a real answer from him. “It’s the closest thing you’ll ever get to coming home with me.”

To her relief, he smiles, albeit an exasperated smile. He keeps his eyes closed, but a hand finds her face to cup her cheek a moment. “My love, I do enjoy talking with you, but it’s very late, and I’m still very tired from the full moon.”

“Sorry,” Darcy murmurs. It’s quiet for a moment, and Darcy shifts, sighing heavily. “I think Harry’s doing very well. I think he might actually have a chance at winning.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” he muses.

“I think Hermione has a crush on you.”

“That’s sweet of her.”

Darcy licks her lips, frowning and frustrated. She quickly pushes him flat onto his back, straddling his waist. At this, Lupin’s eyes open. It annoys her, but she doesn’t quite mind as much as she thought she would.

“It’s late, Darcy,” he mutters, but it doesn’t stop him from resting his hands on her hips, his thumbs tracing lazy circles over her shirt. “You need your sleep for tomorrow.”

“You haven’t touched me in days,” she whispers, lifting her shirt over her head. “Don’t you want to touch me?” Darcy rolls her hips against his, and Lupin lets out an involuntary sigh.

“Don’t tempt me, Darcy,” Lupin utters, gently pushing her off him.

Darcy inhales deeply, humiliated, and she pulls her shirt back on, putting some distance between them. “Have I done something?” she asks, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m tired, kitten. Get some sleep now.”

She rests her head back on the pillow, getting comfortable. Closing her eyes, Darcy feels about to cry, but finds that no tears comes to her eyes. It’s a freeing feeling, almost—to be able to hide her emotions without her body betraying her, just like it always did. Vernon used to call her a crybaby when she was younger. It was true, she’d cried a lot, but any girl would cry after a lash to her legs or a smack to her face.

Lupin moves around on the bed, and for a heartbreaking moment she thinks he’s putting even more distance between them, but at the feel of his lips on hers, Darcy relaxes. He kisses her for a few long moments, finally pulling away to rest his forehead against hers. “Maybe we could go to the countryside,” he whispers, and Darcy smiles. “Just for a little while, and if you decide you like it so much—maybe we could stay.”

“I’d like that.”

He moves again, pulling her to his chest. “Tell me about classes today.”

Darcy does, telling him in a hushed whisper about what she’d done in classes and who had gotten in trouble and choice pieces of gossip she’d picked up while checking cauldrons. She continues to talk until Lupin falls asleep, his deep breaths heavier than usual. Darcy places a kiss on his chest, deciding to just let him rest, but after she’s quiet for a minute, he murmurs, “Keep going, I’m listening.”

“Oh—no, it’s fine,” Darcy says, laughing awkwardly. “Sorry—I’ll let you sleep. I’m just anxious. I can’t sleep.”

“You were perfectly confident about it not two hours ago.” His voice is hoarse and tired, and Darcy wishes she hadn’t bothered him.

“I know, I’m being stupid.” She kisses him again. “I’ll let you sleep now.”

Lupin chuckles, letting out a content sigh. “Bless you, kitten.” Barely coherent and half-asleep again, he adds, “Goodnight.”

Darcy lays awake for a long time with the beating of Lupin’s heart against her cheek being the only sound. Or maybe it’s her own pulse pounding in her ears. As the hours tick by, closer and closer to the third task, Darcy’s anxiety has spiked. But it’s nothing compared to the other tasks. Harry is right—he’s more prepared for this task than any of them could have hoped for, and considering he’d done well with the other tasks with barely any preparation, his chances are good.

But there’s also the anxiety in the knowledge that in about twenty-four hours, the Triwizard Tournament will be over. Part of her tries to will time to slow down, yet the other part is eager for the task—eager to celebrate with her brother, champion or no, and to not have to worry about anymore tasks. After the tasks, the focus will shift again to who put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire.

_And maybe everything will be all right_ , she thinks. _Maybe I’ll go back to Privet Drive and realize what a fool I was to worry so much all year when I should have just tried to enjoy it. I might as well enjoy the task tomorrow. If Harry isn’t worried about it, then I shouldn’t be either._

She decides she might as well go through her old Gryffindor-themed things to see what she can wear to the task. Might be she’ll find some for Gemma too. Her last thought before she slips off into sleep is how hard she’ll kiss Lupin before the entire school, her friends, her brother, her old teachers, and the judges, when Harry wins the Triwizard Tournament tomorrow. 


	56. Chapter 56

“Unbelievable! _Unbelievable_! How could she have possibly known Harry passed out in Divination?” Darcy shoves the newspaper into Lupin’s chest. “Take this—I can't bear to look at it any longer.” She always doesn’t fail to notice the lingering sideways look between Lupin and Gemma, but chooses to ignore it.

Darcy continues to pace the hospital wing, biting her nails. She continually checks her watch. Breakfast will be over soon and she’ll have to return to the Great Hall to help Snape supervise exams, whiling away the hours until dusk. “Look,” Gemma sighs, rising from her seat atop a mattress. “That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that Harry will be doing the third task tonight. He’s prepared, then?”

“Probably as prepared as he could be,” Lupin says, and Darcy nods in agreement, still pacing restlessly. “I’ve always thought the anticipation associated with waiting for something is far worse than the actual something in most cases.”

“In most cases,” Darcy mutters, more to herself than to the others.

“What he means to say is that everything will be fine,” Gemma continues, giving Darcy an exasperated look. “Harry is more than capable of finishing the task.”

Darcy hums in response. She’s saved anymore questions by the door of the hospital wing opening. Professor McGonagall strolls in, slightly out of breath. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Potter,” she says, and Darcy finally stops pacing. “Professor Snape has given you leave to take the day off. You shan’t need to be there for exams.”

“He could have told me that before I rose with the sun,” Darcy answers bitterly, catching sight of McGonagall’s face and muttering, “Sorry, Professor. Why is he giving me the day off, anyway?”

“You’re needed in the Great Hall,” she continues, pretending she hadn’t heard Darcy’s retort. McGonagall gives both Lupin and Gemma curious, appraising looks. “Remus, Smythe—come with me, as well. If you don’t mind, Poppy? She will be returned to you before the third task.”

Madam Pomfrey waves Gemma off impatiently, not that she’d been doing anything.

“What for?” Darcy asks quickly, her nerves jangling. The third task isn’t for hours, and breakfast isn’t even over yet.

“The champions will be meeting with their families today,” Professor McGonagall explains.

“That’s stupid,” Darcy snarls, suddenly feeling angry. “The Dursleys aren’t going to come. You haven’t actually written, have you?”

“You _are_ Harry’s family, aren’t you?” McGonagall asks again pointedly, looking very stern over her glasses. “Besides, I think you will enjoy who you find is also waiting for you.”

Darcy heart jumps in her throat. She can’t mean Sirius, can she? But she doesn’t ask, afraid that Sirius isn’t who’s waiting for her. She, Lupin, and Gemma follow McGonagall down to the Great Hall, ushering them into a small room off a wall—the room Darcy had gone into on Halloween, when Harry’s name had been spit from the Goblet of Fire. It is not, in fact, Sirius who has come to see Harry before the last task, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, along with their eldest son, Bill. Despite it not being who she’d expected, the sight of the three Weasleys mingling with the other families makes Darcy’s stomach churn pleasurably.

When Mrs. Weasley sees Lupin, she purses her lips and scrunches her nose, and Professor McGonagall scoffs. “Really, Molly!” she huffs, making Mrs. Weasley’s face turn bright red. “Been reading the gossip in the _Daily Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ , have you? If you’ll take a moment to talk with him, perhaps you’ll realize Remus is not the monster that Rita Skeeter makes him out to be.”

Mrs. Weasley sputters, avoiding McGonagall’s eyes, looking thankful when the older witch leaves them.

“Hey, Darcy,” Bill smiles. He wraps in her in a crushing hug, his body long and lanky and very thin. His long, red hair is tied back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. “All right?”

“Little better than the last time you saw me,” Darcy admits, turning to face Mr. Weasley. She watches him and Lupin shake hands firmly and politely for a few seconds, smiling as they greet each other.

“When have you two met before?” Mrs. Weasley asks sharply, her eyes fixed upon the back of Lupin’s head. He turns to face her, and her eyes flick back to her husband.

“Never mind that now, Molly,” Mr. Weasley says, too quickly for his wife’s liking. Instead, he extends a hand to Gemma. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. You’re one of Darcy’s friends, aren’t you?”

“Gemma.” She shakes Mr. Weasley’s hand and flashes him a bright smile.

And finally, Mr. Weasley turns to Darcy, holding his arms out for a hug. She falls into him, almost feeling guilty about loving the feeling of being held by someone quite like a father, knowing Sirius is alone in his cave with only a hippogriff for company. “I didn’t realize you were coming,” Darcy grins, allowing Mr. Weasley to kiss her head. “Why didn’t you write?”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to stay for the task,” Mr. Weasley tells her, a hand upon her shoulder. “But Emily will be along for it. She’s very excited to see you.”

Mrs. Weasley, to Darcy’s displeasure, is slightly cold towards her, and shoots Lupin sideways glances most of the time they wait. Gemma distracts Mrs. Weasley with talk of St Mungo’s, and when Lupin notices Darcy tense, he places a hand on the small of her back, making her smile. Mr. Weasley’s hand falls from her shoulder, and Mrs. Weasley doesn’t fail to notice Lupin’s small gesture. Thankfully, Darcy is saved from making conversation as Lupin talks to Mr. Weasley about television, and they both chuckle when he confesses Darcy has a crush on the seven o’clock news anchorman. Darcy blushes furiously, walking away from them to stand with Gemma.

Gemma only smiles at Darcy, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and putting their heads together. It isn’t long until the champions are ushered inside. Harry’s eyes fall first upon Darcy, and he doesn’t look surprised to see Lupin and Gemma standing with her, but his eyes widen and his smile grows at the sight of the Weasleys waiting for him. He shakes Mr. Weasley’s hand, receives a warm hug from Mrs. Weasley, and Bill gives him a pat on the shoulder and and handshake. Darcy looks around curiously at the other families, noticing Fleur watching Bill closely. Fleur blushes prettily when she sees Darcy watching, and she quickly turns away, back to her little sister.

Harry eventually offers Mrs. Weasley and Bill a tour of the grounds, Gemma bids Harry goodbye with a ruffle of his hair and returns to the hospital wing, but Darcy and Lupin linger with Mr. Weasley as he prepares to go. “I’m sorry about Molly,” Mr. Weasley says with a small frown, giving them both apologetic looks. “She did get your letter a while back, but—Darcy, did you have to be so bitter about it?”

Darcy flushes. “I shouldn’t have sent the letter,” she admits, knowing that it wasn’t a very kind one. “I wasn’t in a very good head space. I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley.”

“She’ll come round,” Mr. Weasley promises, shaking Lupin’s hand again and kissing Darcy on the cheek. “I should get back to work. Will I see you on the platform when you return to London?”

“Yes, sir. I’m taking the train home with Harry,” she answers.

“We’ll talk about you and Harry spending some time with us over the summer. Would you like that?”

“Very much.”

“Good girl. I’ll see you in a week.”

Darcy takes advantage of the summer weather, as well. She and Lupin roam the grounds as they used to when she was still a student. Holding onto his bicep and forearm, Lupin leads her around the grounds with no particular destination in mind. They walk through gardens of wildflowers, visit the Thestrals at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and skip stones atop the Black Lake. Lupin speaks to her words of reassurance that Mrs. Weasley will realize how foolish she’s being, that everything will go back to normal soon, but Darcy isn’t sure how much she believes that. When she voices her concerns to Lupin, he smiles weakly at her and gives her words of praise, making her chest swell with pride and her cheeks pink with pleasure and embarrassment. When their legs start to ache and the heat begins rise, Darcy urges him to come back to her room with her, to which he obliges.

Once there, Darcy turns on the half-broken wireless she’d found in an abandoned classroom several months ago. The thing hadn’t worked to begin with, but Professor Flitwick had offered to take a look at it, and he’d done a fine job. It isn’t often she turns it on, but playful music floats through the speakers, crackling along with the small fire in the hearth. Lupin dances with her, spinning her around and around, leading her in a goofy quickstep dance, stepping on each other’s feet and laughing and kissing. When she tires of dancing, Darcy pulls him by the hand into the small bedroom, letting him lift her onto the bed and kiss down her throat to the neckline of her shirt.

Darcy relishes it all—for the past few weeks since the incident, Lupin has been hesitant, almost reluctant to touch her at all. Today is no different—he is more than gentle with her, fingertips barely touching skin, eyes meeting hers every so often as if expecting her to push him away or tell him to stop, touching her as if she’s likely to break with even the slightest pressure. But it does mean more soft kisses than usual, and these are Darcy’s favorite—genuine and loving kisses all over her face and neck and chest, murmuring words of love against her warm skin. But Darcy can’t help the whole things feels rather sad, too. His slow and unsure pace makes it seem like they shouldn’t be doing this—almost as if it’s their first time again—and only when Darcy whispers, “I love you,” and kisses his cheek does he smile, but Darcy’s heart feels quite empty when he doesn’t say it back.

Lupin convinces Darcy to take a private lunch with him in her apartments, not prepared to face the scrutiny that will accompany taking lunch in the Great Hall. It makes Darcy’s heart lighter when Harry realizes that she’s missing from lunch, and he brings Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, Hermione, and Gemma with him to eat with her and Lupin. While she greatly appreciates it, the room is far too small to accommodate so many restless people, and there aren’t enough places to sit; even when Lupin and Bill conjure more chairs, it’s a tight squeeze. Darcy, Hermione, and Gemma sit shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, eating and bumping elbows each time they move; Mrs. Weasley sits on the armchair, enjoying her elbow space, her eyes flitting to each photograph visible from her position; Harry and Ron sit with their backs to the fire, cross-legged on the ground with their plates on the long coffee table; Lupin and Bill eat while standing, slightly removed from everyone else and talking amiably, chuckling every so often. Darcy glances over her shoulder at him, and they both smile brightly at her before she blushes and turns back to her food.

Besides Lupin and Bill, the atmosphere is tense until Darcy smiles at Hermione and Ron weakly. “How were exams?”

Ron immediately tells Darcy about his History of Magic exam, launching into the story of what had gone through his brain during each question, and making everyone laugh—even his mother, sometimes. Hermione’s exam, it seems, had gone a deal better, but she still continues to ask after answers that she thinks she missed. Gemma, who’d always enjoyed History of Magic as much as one can, happily indulges Hermione. She’s even glad to see Mrs. Weasley acting very warmly towards Hermione, especially after the Easter incident.

Halfway through lunch, Darcy finds Mrs. Weasley staring at her and falters. “Darcy,” she mutters, leaning towards her as not to interrupt Harry and Ron’s conversation. “Might I have a private word with you? Just outside would be fine.”

“Er—we could just go into the bedroom.” Darcy lets Gemma take her plate from her, and gets to her feet. She leads Mrs. Weasley towards the back, closes the door, and immediately realizes her mistake. The bed isn’t made, clearly in use by two people. She and Lupin’s clothes are discarded on the floor or on top of the small dresser, and his bag is open on the floor—an unopened bottle of wine is still inside, and a few photographs are on the nightstand, thankfully of nothing too humiliating. “It was so good of you to stop by, Mrs. Weasley. Harry’s been doing nothing but practicing for the third task for weeks.”

“It’s a beautiful room you’ve been given,” Mrs. Weasley says in a voice of forced calm, seating herself very delicately on the edge of Darcy’s bed. “And private, as well.”

“It’s grown on me,” Darcy smiles weakly, crossing her arms over her chest and looking around. She tries to hide her embarrassment as the scent of sex fills her nose. Maybe Mrs. Weasley won’t notice, but it would be hard not to notice Darcy’s burning cheeks. “As for privacy… I don’t know the meaning of privacy between Harry and his friends.” She laughs softly, a laughter that Mrs. Weasley doesn’t return.

“Harry speaks very highly of him,” she says, and Darcy raises her eyebrows as Mrs. Weasley’s eyes shift towards the door.

“Of Remus,” Darcy replies slowly, wanting to hear Mrs. Weasley say his name. “Remus is very fond of Harry, as well. He cares very much for my brother.”

“And Harry cares very much about Remus, it would seem.” She looks distraught then, frowning at Darcy. “Please don’t tell me it’s true—your teacher, Darcy?”

Darcy sighs, not in the mood to go into detail. “It was—complicated,” she answers. “What matters is that he cares for me and loves me, and I love him.”

“And Arthur?”

With a surge of affection for Mr. Weasley, Darcy shifts uncomfortably on her feet. “After the Quidditch World Cup, Mr. Weasley was going to bring me back to your house, but I—I went to Remus’s instead and he showed up the next day and… maybe Mr. Weasley should be the one to tell you this.”

Mrs. Weasley gets to her feet, holding out her arms for Darcy. Darcy accepts the hug—a bone-breaking hug that could rival Hagrid’s. “I’m sorry about Easter,” she murmurs. “When you come back to our home, I’ll make sure you have the biggest egg anyone has ever seen.”

“And Hermione?”

With a smile, Mrs. Weasley pats Darcy’s cheek, nodding. Darcy grins, holding her wand out and motioning for Mrs. Weasley to stay quiet. She flicks her wrist and the door of the bedroom. It opens with a crash, and Darcy grins as her friends all scramble back to their seats, red-faced and panting.

“I told you,” Darcy laughs. “No privacy around here.” She looks towards her brother, smiling at him. Harry rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks red, and gives a small shrug and a small smile back.

“Darcy, come here,” Lupin calls. He and Bill had seemingly been the only two to not be listening at the bedroom door. Darcy approaches them, and Lupin places his hand on the small of her back again. “Bill’s told me some interesting news about Percy and Barty Crouch. I thought you’d be interested.”

“Oh?” Darcy looks expectantly at Bill. She’s glad to see he doesn’t look annoyed to be repeating the information.

“Percy’s been called in for questioning,” Bill explains quietly, giving his mother a sideways glance. Those instructions that Crouch has been sending Percy—it’s been suggested that they haven’t actually been written by Crouch.”

“But who do they think is sending them if not Crouch?” Darcy asks carefully, narrowing her eyes. “Surely they have someone to suspect?”

“Er—unfortunately, I don’t know that much,” Bill replies, giving Darcy a once over and a wary look before smiling again. “However, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we? Though, if truth be told, I don’t think Percy knows anything. I think he’s just been an unsuspecting victim in this whole thing. Worshipped Barty Crouch, didn’t you know?”

Darcy hums, looking up at Lupin. “Yes,” she says distractedly, the gears in her brain working uncommonly fast. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

* * *

“How do I look?”

Lupin smiles as Darcy twirls gracefully, clad in a gray-blue dress that leaves her long legs bare, and short sleeves that cover the scars on her shoulder. Around her neck is the necklace that Lupin has bought her for Christmas, and on her feet, a pair of flats she’d left at Lupin’s for so long. “Beautiful as ever,” he says, lowering the newspaper to kiss her deeply. “What’s the occasion? Certainly not just the third task?”

“Well,” Darcy says casually, tucking her hair behind her ears. When she shifts, the neckline slips, revealing part of her shoulder. Lupin quickly adjusts it, moving her hair to cover the place should it happen again. “When Harry _does_ become the youngest winner of the Triwizard Tournament tonight, they’ll want pictures, of course. I will not have the first positive thing written about us in the Daily Prophet be accompanied by a photograph of me looking like a bum.”

“You’re excited,” he grins.

“Yes,” Darcy answers breathlessly. “Maybe relieved is the better word? After today, I’ll never have to worry about another damn task again in my life.”

Lupin takes her hands in his, squeezing gently. “Must I sit with you for dinner? I’d much rather have dinner with you in here, privately—not around hundreds of watching eyes.”

“Professor Dumbledore invited you to sit with us,” Darcy frowns. “It’s just the one time, and then you won’t have to do it again, I promise.” She pulls her hands away and smiles, touching his chest, brushing off his shirt. “I’ll make it up to you, anyway you want.”

He kisses her again, whispering things in her ear that make her blush furiously.

They both arrive slightly after the feast has started—Darcy’s cheeks are still flushed, and there’s an uncharacteristic smile on Lupin’s face as he walks beside her, her fingers curled around his arm. A few students call out to them as they make their way up the aisle, and Harry, Hermione, and Ron all smile at them. The staff table is crowded today with a few extra people. Darcy is delighted to find Ludo Bagman already seated and eating, and less delighted to find that Cornelius Fudge has joined them, as well. At Madam Pomfrey’s side, Gemma is eating as if starved, waving at them both. Ludo stands at the sight of her, taking her by the hand and twirling her, admiring her dress, and kissing her head. “Sorry we’re late,” Darcy says, taking the empty seat beside him. Lupin sits to her left, beside Snape.

“No worries,” Ludo assures her, passing some food their way. “I’m glad to see you in such a wonderful mood. I couldn’t help but to think you’d walk in sullen and anxious again.”

Darcy chuckles. “Not today.” She glances down the staff table, turning back to Ludo quickly. “I didn’t realize the Minister of Magic would be here today.”

“It’s only fitting,” Ludo replies, his mouth full of food. “He’s filling in for Crouch as the fifth judge for the last task of the Triwizard Tournament. Have you enjoyed it, my dear?”

While this makes Darcy slightly wary, she puts on a happy face. “Would I offend you if I said I’d rather never have to live through another one?”

At this, Ludo laughs heartily. “Not at all, Darcy, not at all.”

She looks curiously at Fudge again before sharing a knowing glance with Lupin. So Percy has been hauled in for questioning, after Barty Crouch had mysteriously wandered out of the Forbidden Forest talking nonsense, possibly under the Imperius Curse, and he obviously wasn’t given leave to fill in as judge. Darcy wets her lips. _Focus on the task first,_ she tells herself, taking small bites of her food just for something to do with her mouth. _Once the tournament is over, I can focus again on Barty Crouch._

Course after course is brought out for all of the students, guests, and teachers, and when Darcy glances up at Harry, she can see the anxiety written across his face. He meets her eyes for a split second and they smile at each other, easing their nerves. Ludo Bagman talks her ear off, giving her a very detailed history of the Triwizard Tournament, but Darcy hardly listens, only catching snippets of his lecture. Every so often, Darcy looks at Lupin, their hands touching under the table as a form of small comfort. Darcy begins to eat less and less, her leg bouncing wildly, and when dusk begins to settle across the grounds and up in the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling, Dumbledore orders the champions to follow Ludo Bagman down to the Quidditch pitch, where Darcy knows the maze is waiting. Ludo squeezes her hand, beaming at her before leaving the staff table to lead Harry, Viktor, Fleur, and Cedric out of the Great Hall to many cheers and wolf-whistles.

And not five minutes later, the rest of the school is ushered out. Darcy takes Lupin by the hand, held up by the crowd of students. Gemma appears suddenly between them. Darcy and Lupin release their hold on each other as Gemma hooks her arms around theirs. “I may or may not have some firewhiskey down my pants— _don’t look_! You’ll make it obvious!” she scolds Darcy when her eyes travel down to the abnormal lump in Gemma’s pants. “Just don’t let go.”

Assertive as ever, Gemma clears a path for the three of them. Darcy and Lupin apologize to everyone in her wake in meek and sympathetic voices, their cheeks pink as younger students are pushed aside and older students scoff at them. When they reach the Weasleys and Hermione, Gemma releases Lupin’s arm to hold Hermione’s hand instead. Hermione is a bit louder in her protests to leave the younger students alone, but Gemma pays her no mind, only shushes her as she forces their way to the front of the crowd.

“Smythe, why aren’t you with Madam Pomfrey?” Professor McGonagall asks, eyeing her suspicious as they all emerge from the gaggle of students.

Hiding herself slightly behind Darcy, Gemma throws McGonagall a sweet smile. “Madam Pomfrey said I could sit with my friends,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. McGonagall gives Gemma, Darcy, and Lupin a very familiar look before turning her back on them and leading everyone towards the Quidditch Pitch. “I hope you like very warm firewhiskey, Darcy.”

Darcy chuckles, making McGonagall looks quickly over her shoulder at them. “Emily’s going to be here,” she says brightly. “We should find her before finding seats.”

“We should find seats before finding Emily,” Gemma suggests, pointing out the Quidditch pitch now coming into view. They all admire it for a moment—the maze is made from hedges nearly twenty feet high, and the stands have been enlarged to support more people than usual, lowered to the ground in order to better see the task, though Darcy can’t see how anyone will see inside the maze.

“We’ll find seats,” Lupin tells them both, falling back into step beside Bill and Ron. “You two find Emily. I’m sure she’d have a much better time if she didn’t have to see my face.”

Darcy nods, holding onto Lupin’s hand until Gemma pulls her away. “Good, we can smoke a cigarette before the task starts. Anyway—look, I’m wearing my earrings again. Where’s your Gryffindor stuff?”

“But this dress was _so_ cute,” Darcy frowns, looking down at it and flattening the front. “I had to wear it. And besides, I’m wearing red underwear. That counts, doesn’t it?” They look around the stands for a moment.

“Where do you think she’ll be?”

“Let’s find Mr. Bagman. He’ll be able to point us in the right direction.”

And he does. Ludo Bagman, so excited he’s near bouncing on his feet, points both Darcy and Gemma to a smaller seating area on the ground just outside the front of the maze. Kissing Harry’s head (after which he blushes and scowls at his sister) as they pass, Darcy and Gemma help themselves into the boxed seats, sitting on either side of Emily. She looks up from her notebook with a smile.

Emily still looks beautiful, more like her mother with each passing day. There’s a tiredness about her Darcy hadn’t noticed last time she’d seen her (not that she’d had much time between panicking to really pay attention), and she scribbles furiously with her quill once more before giving her friends her full attention. Her honey blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail, adorned with red and gold ribbon.

“Darcy, you look rather happy considering we’re just about to start the third task,” Emily teases, and Darcy shrugs. “Look, I’m so sorry, but I’ll be collecting interviews with the judges, and I have to stay here for the task. I’ll meet up with you after?”

Darcy and Gemma exchange a quick look behind Emily’s back. “Lupin’s gone to find us seats. Don’t you want to watch Harry win with us?” Gemma asks, her brow furrowed. “Come on, I brought some firewhiskey. It’s in my pants, just like old times.”

“I’m sorry, but I have a job to do,” Emily snaps, and Gemma raises her eyebrows, clearly unimpressed. “I’m here to cover the Triwizard Tournament. I’m here to collect interviews and do what Rita Skeeter could not.”

“It seems Rita Skeeter still has time to publish nasty articles about Harry, doesn’t she?” Gemma retorts.

“Dumbledore forbid her from entering the grounds,” Emily corrects. “He didn’t have her fired from the _Prophet_. I can’t help what she publishes, but I’m sorry she wrote what she did.”

Gemma laughs bitterly. “Seems like the _Prophet_ has sucked all the fun out of you. Or is it the Auror training?”

“I have not had the fun sucked out of me,” Emily hisses defensively. Her tone is so familiar that it makes Darcy smile. “I’m working two very high-stress jobs right now and—”

“—and Darcy has to work with Professor Snape all day,” Gemma cuts in, winking over Emily’s head at Darcy, “and I’ve not only helped create a new potion to help werewolves in the past year, I’ve also been working all-nighters at St Mungo’s while keeping two days a week at Hogwarts.” She gets to her feet and walks around Emily to grab Darcy’s elbow, pulling her away. “My dissertation and research will be in your beloved _Daily Prophet_ in the next few weeks, by the way, so keep an eye out.”

Gemma and Darcy walk away quickly, scanning the stands for signs of their friends. “Do you think she’s all right?” Darcy asks, pointing out Bill with ease—a foot taller than everyone around him with that bright red, Weasley hair. “Emily, I mean? I hope her dad’s doing all right.”

“You can’t help someone who doesn’t want help,” Gemma says a little louder, the noise growing around them as they climb the stands. “We’ll see her afterwards, so forget it right now.”

They move to stand with Lupin, Hermione, and Ron, offering no explanation as to why Emily isn’t with them.

They wait for a little while, talking absentmindedly as the stands continue to fill, and Gemma—after forcing Darcy, Lupin, and Ron to cover her while she reaches into her pants—finally extracting a flask of firewhiskey. She takes a swig, passing it to Lupin. He glances around nervously before taking a drink and giving it to Darcy. The flask barely touches her lips when she hears it—“ _Potter_!” And the flask is torn from her hand, flying a little ways away to Professor McGonagall. She catches it deftly, looking at her with her nostrils flared.

“Sorry, Professor!” Darcy calls. Then, she turns to Gemma. “Sorry, Gemma.”

Gemma, however, looks accusingly at Lupin. “You _had_ to find seats by McGonagall, did you?”

“She wasn’t there when I found the seats,” Lupin counters. He drapes an arm around Darcy’s shoulders. “Ready?”

Darcy nods, and Ludo Bagman takes the opportunity to magnify his voice. Lupin holds her close and Darcy falls into him, unsure if she could be any more ready for the third task. “Ladies and gentlemen, the third task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin!” he shouts, and the crowd erupts in cheers. “The points stand as thus—tied for first place, with eight-five points each—Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter of Hogwarts!”

Most of the students in the crowd get to their feet, shouting their love for both champions. Ludo allows them a few seconds before holding a hand up for quiet again. Darcy can see him move from Harry’s side to Viktor Krum’s.

“In second place, with eighty points—Viktor Krum!”

Gemma and Hermione clap on Lupin’s other side, smiling and whispering to each other.

“And in third place—Fleur Delacour!”

There’s a polite smattering of applause and screams of approval from the Beauxbatons students. Harry looks up into the crowd, his eyes scanning the faces of all the students and guests and teachers. Finally, they fall on Darcy, and they both smile at each other, waving.

Ludo continues. “On my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” He counts off and blows his whistle, and both Harry and Cedric enter the maze, the hedges nearly swallowing them. After a few moments, Ludo blows his whistle again and Viktor follows them. Finally, when Viktor has been given a decent chance at a headstart, Ludo blows his whistle once more and Fleur enters the maze.

“Now we wait,” Lupin says, kissing her head.

Darcy’s heart is racing, but there’s still a smile on her face. “Now we wait.”


	57. Chapter 57

“You know, one of you is going to have to start buying your own cigarettes.”

“You’d make _me_ buy my own?”

Gemma gives Darcy an appraising look before turning directly towards Lupin. He reaches for the cigarette held in her hand, but she moves it away before he can snatch it. “ _You_ need to start buying your own cigarettes, then.” But she gives him the cigarette anyway and passes her lighter around. “All right, tell me again why Fudge is judging instead of Percy? Not that I mind, but I wouldn’t dare say that in front of Mrs. Weasley. Is she a nightmare, Darcy?”

“What would Madam Pomfrey say?” Darcy grins, taking a pull on her cigarette.

“Don’t remind me,” Gemma says, chuckling. She puts on her best Madam Pomfrey voice. “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all.”

The three of them laugh, hidden from view. In the shadows of the stands, they puff on cigarettes, sticky in the warm, summer air. “I would be more concerned if she wasn’t a nightmare sometimes. I don’t know that I could remain sane with all those kids—especially Fred and George.”

“The twins aren’t so bad,” Gemma shrugs.

Darcy scoffs. “You’re only saying that because Fred’s been sweet on you since you’ve met.”

Gemma seems proud, though. She looks to Lupin. “It’s true, you know,” she explains, unabashed. “Fred used to send me love letters via Darcy when I was in sixth year. Ron used to have a crush on Emily—it was quite sweet, until he realized that she’s cold-hearted. And Neville Longbottom had the hots for Darcy for a while, didn’t he? Did she ever tell you that?”

Feeling a stab of agony for Neville, Darcy smiles weakly. “He’s a sweet boy. Still blushes when I try to help him in Potions.”

“All right, listen, because this might be the only time you’ll ever hear me say this.” Gemma raises her cigarette to her lips, giving Darcy a serious look. “Enough talk about boys. Tell me about Percy and Fudge.”

Darcy and Lupin both fill Gemma in on what Bill had said. Gemma listens carefully, stroking her chin with her eyes narrowed as they finish. It seems Gemma has expected more information, and she’s quiet for a long time after they finish. “Do you think Percy really knows anything?”

“I don’t know,” Darcy admits, flicking the butt of her cigarette away. “I mean—the Percy that I know never ever broke any school rules. I have a hard time believing he’d break the law, or even accept instructions from someone else. I think he was more excited at the prospect of having so much power within the Ministry that he never even considered the letters could be from someone else.”

“So who’s questioning him?” Gemma asks. “Fudge?”

Lupin opens his mouth to speak, but an echoing, piercing scream cuts him off. All three of them jump, turning towards the sound of the scream. It seems to have come from the maze, and Lupin assures them gently, “It’s probably just Fleur.” They’re quiet for a moment, waiting for another sound, but one doesn’t come. The crowd begins to make more noise again, providing the perfect cover for their conversation. “Bill didn’t know much else, let alone who was going to be questioning Percy.”

“I bet Emily would know,” Darcy says thoughtfully. “We should ask her.”

“Maybe we should wait until after the task is over,” Gemma smiles. “Lest we distract her with our petty talk.”

Gemma soon bids them a quick goodbye, rushing off to assist Madam Pomfrey with Fleur, and Darcy and Lupin make their way back up to the stands, finding their seats again. She catches sight of Mad-Eye Moody limping around the corner of the maze with an unconscious Fleur. Darcy’s heart begins to flutter. _I wonder if he can see Harry, too. How long with this take?_ Gemma and Madam  
Pomfrey are quick to take her from Moody before he vanishes around the corner of the maze again. Yet at the same time, her anxiety begins to peak. _One down, three to go. Harry can win._

She takes a moment to look around. Carla is across the stands, swarmed by Hufflepuff girls, all waving black and yellow pennants and shouting for Cedric. Down below, Ludo Bagman chats amiably with Cornelius Fudge, waving his thick arms around and smiling. Fudge looks almost exasperated, and the sight makes Darcy smile, finding it rather endearing. She remembers the first time she’d met Ludo Bagman at he Ministry with Mr. Weasley. She had been unsure about him then, but Darcy chastises herself for being so stupid. Ludo had been kind to her, had kept her mind off things, had treated her like a person, and Darcy has to admit that she’s come to care for him a great deal. She wonders how he feels about her.

Emily is down below, as well, still writing as Gemma and Madam Pomfrey revive Fleur. Fleur brings a hand to her head, looking groggy and tired and sore. There’s a small cut above her eyebrow that trickles bright red blood down her cheek, and Madam Pomfrey wipes it away roughly.

Dumbledore is sitting politely with Snape at his side. Snape looks almost restless, shifting on his feet, watching the staff that is patrolling the maze, waiting for someone to send red sparks up in order to signal for help. Hagrid paces in front of the entrance of the maze, glancing up at Madam Maxime every so often, who looks tense and solemn.

“Let’s go see Mr. Bagman,” Darcy urges, clutching Lupin’s hand. She tries to pull him back down the stands, but Lupin doesn’t move.

“Must we?” Lupin asks with a sigh.

Remembering Lupin’s harsh tone when speaking of Ludo, Darcy draws back, releasing his hand and looking away sheepishly. “No, I suppose not.”

But Darcy is getting restless, as well, and she wishes Gemma would come back to distract her. She wants to talk to someone, to see what they think of the maze and Harry’s chances of coming out the winner. All they’ve been doing is waiting and waiting and waiting and she’s impatient—how long would it take for someone to reach the Cup, strategically placed in the maze? How long until something happens? Ludo Bagman would know, Darcy tells herself, looking sideways at him from her seat. She looks at him for a moment, hoping to catch his eye, but Ludo doesn’t seem to see her among the crowd.

It’s waiting, and waiting, and waiting. It’s the anxiety of not knowing what’s going on in the maze, the anxiety of Ludo not giving any commentary, the anxiety of not knowing what is lurking inside of the hedges. Darcy’s stomach twists and clenches with every odd noise and every rustle of the hedge leaves. She wishes she’d brought something to do, something to keep her mind occupied as Harry works his way through the maze, closer and closer to the Cup.

Gemma remains down with Madam Pomfrey as red sparks shoot from the maze, exploding in the air like fireworks. The staff and teachers scurry like ants by the maze, and Darcy exchanges quick and anxious looks with Lupin and Hermione before her eyes fall upon the maze again. To her immense surprise and great pleasure, it is indeed Viktor Krum removed from the maze next—Viktor Krum, unconscious, just as Fleur had been. _What is happening in the maze?_

It isn’t long before Gemma returns to them, pushing her way through the crowd and stumbling over George’s feet as she tries to reach Darcy. Darcy holds her hands out, nearly yanking Gemma to her. “It’ll have to be a Hogwarts victory now, won’t it?” Gemma beams, her hair slightly disheveled, but otherwise looking radiant. “What’s Harry going to do with the money?”

“Hopefully put it in the vault and save it,” Darcy says, making Lupin laugh.

“You’re terrible with money,” he quips, and Darcy blushes as Gemma chuckles. “If Harry wins the money, he can use it replace all that you’ve spent in the past year alone.”

“Forgive me for enjoying the finer things,” Darcy retorts, giving him a playful smile. “Sometimes spending money is the closest thing to therapy I’ll ever get.”

“The finer things? Is that what we’re calling the cheapest bottle of firewhiskey you can find now?”

Gemma raises her eyebrows, not bothering to argue. The three of them laugh, and Darcy leans against Lupin, taking his hand in hers again. Her palm is sweaty against his, clammy and trembling. Despite knowing Harry will be fine—Fleur and Viktor were, after all, now sitting with staff to watch the rest of the task—Darcy can’t help but to worry again. She tries to force herself not to, tries to will the bad thoughts from her mind. Either Harry will exit the maze the youngest winner and Hogwarts’ official champion, or he will emerge Stunned or injured or unconscious just like the others—and even if he were to emerge like that, Gemma would care for him. Gemma would make sure he’s all right.

“How long do you think it’ll be?” Darcy asks, frowning at the enormous maze. “I hate waiting.”

“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” Gemma smiles, wrapping her fingers around Darcy’s arm and resting her head on her shoulder. “It’s only Harry and Cedric now.”

The three of them stand for a while, and when it’s clear that more waiting is ahead of them, finally take their seats. Lupin leans back, allowing Darcy to rest her cheek against his arm. She can’t help but to close her eyes, tired of waiting, tired of sitting, tired of listening to the crowd cheer on their champions, tired of tasks and the Triwizard Tournament. Gemma must feel the same—with her head still against Darcy’s shoulder, her eyes flutter shut, her breathing slowing as she inhales and exhales deeply. Darcy, not wanting to fall asleep, decides instead to keep her eyes fixed on the maze, the leaves blowing in the slight summer breeze, and smiles weakly whenever Lupin places a kiss to her head.

What feels like hours passes, though according to Darcy’s watch (which she feels _must_ be faulty), it’s only been a little over an hour. She shrugs Gemma off her shoulder and gets to her feet, stretching and yawning. It seems the staff has begun to get anxious, as well, restless and unsure of what’s going on. Darcy tries to find Moody among them, to see if he’s giving them any information, but he’s nowhere to be found. It’s then that Darcy realizes someone else is missing—while Fleur sits with her family and Madame Maxime, Viktor Krum is alone with his family, and Karkaroff is missing. Darcy finds this a strange sight, but wonders if she shouldn’t jump to conclusions, as it’s possible Karkaroff is simply patrolling the outside of the maze.

And with a jolt, _something_ happens. Darcy’s heart leaps when she sees a bright blue light flash down below the stands. She jumps to her feet again, curious, feeling Gemma and Lupin rise slowly with her. And then she sees the Triwizard Cup, glowing the same bright blue, slowly fading as it rolls across the grass. The light from the many torches and the stars above fall upon the people— _people_ , not _person_ —who have come with the Cup. The bigger one is clad in black and yellow, a badger upon his shirt, and it seems to be him everyone sees first. The Hufflepuffs’ cheers echo throughout the grounds; they stamp their feet and holler and celebrate. But Darcy’s eyes are drawn to the other body—the smaller one with dark, shaggy hair, hunched over Cedric.

“Something’s wrong,” Darcy whispers to herself. Her heart starts to race, making her lightheaded, and fear surges through her—a fear of what she’ll find when she reaches them, a fear of what she’ll hear from her brother’s mouth about what happened. She clutches Lupin’s hand, also on his feet. He looks at her with a blank, confused expression, and then they move as one. As Darcy makes to sprint past him, down the stands, Lupin wraps his arms around her, holding her tight to his body and nearly lifting her in the air as her legs flail around as if the victim of a brutal Jelly-Legs Jinx. They’re not moving, she notices, struggling in Lupin’s hold. _Why aren’t they moving? Why aren’t they getting up?_

Finally, she breaks free of Lupin, pushing the Weasleys out of the way and running down the stairs as he calls after her, as fast as her long legs can take her—two steps at a time, three steps at a time on wobbly legs that threaten to collapse, and as she runs past unsuspecting students, their eyes follow her down the stands, silent, horrified. Everyone has quieted now, she realizes, waiting to hear what has happened. Some students mutter to their friends, and she can hear some younger girls begin to cry, sniffling loudly. As she lands at the bottom of the steps, a shock goes up her legs, and she steps towards Harry and Cedric, losing sight of them as teachers and judges crowd the boys. Another pair of arms catch her again—these ones are burlier, thicker, and for a moment Darcy thinks it’s Charlie Weasley, but it’s Ludo’s voice speaking in her ear, holder her much tighter to him than Lupin had.

“Darcy,” he says, his voice ragged. “Darcy, please—wait—it’s all right now, Darcy—”

“Please, let me go, Mr. Bagman,” she begs, one of his arms tightening around her waist. His other hand holds her arm with a painful grip. “I need to get to Harry—”

“Darcy, it’s all right,” he whispers, but Ludo’s words and voice do not calm or reassure her. “Harry’s all right—just wait—I’ve got you—”

“Harry!” Darcy screams, and she can hear it echo throughout the chillingly quiet stands. She squirms fitfully against Ludo, clawing at his hands until he loosens his hold and she breaks free. “Harry!”

She forces aside Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, her legs feeling weak. Cornelius Fudge is trying to coerce Harry away from Cedric, and Darcy sees Cedric’s face first before Harry’s, and when she closes her eyes she can see her mother’s face and Mrs. Duncan’s face without warning. Cedric’s eyes stare towards the sky, unblinking, a soft brown color opened wide in surprise. Harry’s crying—he’s _crying_ —over Cedric, holding on tight to him with one hand and his wand with the other. His shirt is torn and bloodied, his forearm bleeding profusely, and his face is covered in sweat and dirt, his glasses broken.

Fudge turns to see her standing there, watching the scene, and he springs back to his feet. Red-faced, he turns to Dumbledore. “She shouldn’t be here,” he hisses to the Headmaster. “A boy is dead—Miss Potter, _please_ —”

“Minister,” Dumbledore says gently. “I would prefer she stays.”

Darcy lowers herself to her knees, unable to stand any longer, and she touches Harry gently on his shoulder. “Harry,” she breathes, trying to keep her voice level to soothe him. “There’s nothing you can do for him.”

Almost at once, as if Harry knows exactly whose fingertips had touched him by instinct, he turns to fall against Darcy, gripping her arms so tightly that his fingernails break her skin. Dumbledore kneels beside them, listening. “He’s back,” Harry tells his sister, afraid, his voice shaking with sobs. “Voldemort’s back.”

And with that, Harry falls into her, burying his face in her shoulder and crying. Darcy holds him to her, combing the back of his sweat-soaked hair with her fingers, trembling violently. The tears come unbidden—weeks worth of tears that have been building up, tears Darcy hadn’t realized she still had yet to cry. She kisses his head, hardly able to breathe, but she still whispers, “You’re so brave, Harry—you’re so brave—”

“He told me to bring his body back,” Harry cries, his voice muffled by Darcy’s damp sleeve. “Cedric asked me—he told me to bring his body back—to his parents—”

And still, people crowd around them, blocking out their view of the stands. Darcy can’t tear her eyes away from Cedric, and people are now becoming louder as they announce that Cedric’s dead, and Fudge looks to be in disbelief at Harry’s words.

“It’s all right, Harry,” Darcy continues to whisper, holding tight. “You did all you could—I’m here… I’m here now…”

Harry only cries into her shoulder, oblivious to the world around him. And then Dumbledore reaches down, grabbing hold of Harry and hoisting him to his shaky feet, and Darcy rises with him. Harry protests weakly at first, and Darcy sees his face clearly for the first time. His eyes are filled with tears, open in horror, almost as lifeless as Cedric’s. They grab for each other, clutching onto each other’s hands, but there are too many people around and Darcy’s shuffled among the other staff.

Someone catches her—fingers clasp on her shoulder, and she hates herself for knowing whose fingers they are so quickly. “ _No_!” she shouts, watching Moody thump over to grab hold of Harry a few yards in front of her. “Stop! I need to be with Harry—!” Darcy takes a shaky step forward, but Snape’s fingers wrap around her upper arm instead, pulling her into his chest. “Let me go, please—I need to be with Harry—please, he needs me—”

As fear grips Darcy’s heart, the world around her grows still as she processes Harry’s words for the first time. “Voldemort’s back,” she whispers to Snape, feeling dizzy, and she wonders if he already knows. He holds her tight, and Darcy succumbs to his grip, trying to see what’s happening. Cedric’s body is gone behind a wall of people, and Darcy sees Dumbledore watching Moody drag Harry away, his face not his usual charismatic and playful expression, but one of anger and confusion, his lips tight.

“Darcy—” Lupin’s hands grab hold of her, prying her from Snape’s chest. Darcy cries harder, tired of being jerked around, needing to go after Harry. She nuzzles into Lupin’s chest, unable to speak a coherent word. “Come—we’ll get you back to the castle—”

“ _No_ ,” comes Dumbledore’s voice, a commanding voice. Lupin freezes, and Dumbledore is there somehow, standing in front of them. “I want Darcy with me. Remus, Gemma—take the Weasleys and Miss Granger back to Darcy’s room and await further instructions. Severus, bring Darcy. Minerva, come.”

Lupin hesitates for a fraction of a second before releasing Darcy. Darcy stumbles backwards, Snape’s hand on the nape of her neck, a comforting and grounding touch that makes noise come back to her, her senses returning to her. She reaches out for Lupin, and his hand touches hers as she’s pulled away from him. Gemma already has Hermione’s hand in hers, and her free hand is on Ron’s shoulder and Fred and George behind her as she ushers them through the chaos towards the castle. Lupin disappears into the thick of it, racing towards Mrs. Weasley and Bill. And before she can try and run after him, Snape’s hands are on her back and he’s pushing her gently away, with Dumbledore and McGonagall racing ahead of them.

The sheer shock of everything has made Darcy clumsy on her gangly legs. She trips over her feet, and holds onto Snape’s right arm so tight she’s like to rip it off. She had thought everything would be fine just minutes before—she thought Harry would emerge from the maze with the Cup as the winner, triumphant and glorious, and instead he’d come back crying over Cedric’s dead body, crying that Voldemort was back. Darcy’s beautiful dress that she had worn for photographs is now covered in mud and dirt and grass, Harry’s sweat and blood. The walk to the castle seems so long, Darcy isn’t sure she’ll make it. Her entire body is shaking with fear, and she needs someone to help her, to explain to her what’s going on—she needs her brother, needs to comfort him, needs to hug him and kiss him and let him know that she’s here and he’ll be all right, even if it is a lie.

“Professor,” she pants, still digging her fingers into his arm as they climb the sloping hill towards the castle. “What’s happening? Where’s Harry? What’s happened to him?”

Snape only looks at her, and it’s clear by his expression that he doesn’t have any answers to give her.

“We must move quickly,” Dumbledore urges them, and the four of them pick up the pace as they enter the castle. The Headmaster leads them up several flights of stairs, down a corridor that Darcy must have walked a thousand times in her life, into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and up to Lupin’s old office. With surprising agility for such an old man, Dumbledore nearly breaks down the door, his wand extended—“ _Stupefy_!”

Professor Moody—whose wand had been out, as well—flies backwards towards the wall, knocked out and sliding to the ground. Harry turns around quickly, eyes roving over the four who’ve come barging in so suddenly. Harry gropes for words and Darcy breaks from Snape’s side to wrap her arms around Harry, pulling him away from the unconscious Moody.

“It was Moody,” Harry breathes in utter disbelief, and Darcy’s brow furrows. She looks from her brother’s face to Moody’s and back again. “How—? He said—it was _him_ —”

“This is not Alastor Moody,” Dumbledore growls. There’s a hand on Darcy’s back, and she thinks of shaking Snape off, but there’s something comforting about such a steady touch that she lets him be. Darcy’s heart races again. “You have never known Alastor Moody. The real Moody would have never taken you out of my sight. The real Moody would not have separated you from your sister. When he did—I knew, and I followed.” Reaching into Moody’s pocket, Dumbledore digs around for a moment, retrieving his infamous hip flask and a ring of keys. “Severus, I’ll need a Truth Potion—the strongest you have, and fetch Winky the house-elf. Minerva, at Hagrid’s, you will find a black dog in the pumpkin patch. Bring him to my office and come back.”

Darcy’s heart leaps painfully in her chest and throat. Part of her wants to run with McGonagall, to have Sirius throw his arms around her as she cries, but she knows Harry needs her. _Or do I need Harry?_ She pulls Harry away from the massive trunk Dumbledore approaches. He fumbles with the keys, placing one in and opening it to reveal one thing, closing it and placing the second key to reveal another. He inserts a third and a fourth and Darcy, out of curiosity, peers inside each time. Spellbooks and unusual objects and parchment and empty ink bottles and quills and empty vials, until finally Dumbledore uses the seventh key and the trunk pops open again, revealing a deep pit and Darcy creeps forward, looking over the edge and jumping, startling Harry, still in her arms.

Down at the very bottom is—Moody. He looks awful—wooden leg and magical eye missing, hair torn and uneven, looking like straw from far up here. Dumbledore climbs into the trunk, and Darcy calls, “Professor, wait—”

“Do not worry, Darcy,” he says, smiling. Seeing Dumbledore smile again for the first time since before the task calms her. “Will you fetch the imposter’s cloak for me?”

Darcy hesitates as Dumbledore continues his slow descent, but finally does as she’s bid, grabbing the cloak as if it may bite her and pulling it hard. The fake Moody’s body slumps slightly as she tugs it away from him and throws it down the trunk to Dumbledore. Covering Moody with the cloak and climbing back out, Dumbledore then takes the flask he’d taken, opening it and turning it upside down. Darcy is very familiar with the small drops of liquid that come out of it, splashing on the floor.

“That’s Polyjuice Potion,” she gasps, and Dumbledore nods. She comes to a sudden realization, shaking her head as if she can will it not to be true. “But—then it was him who broke into Professor Snape’s office—it was _him_ that stole the ingredients—”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agrees, placing the flask back on the table. “And if we are lucky, our fake Moody will have forgotten to task his next hourly dose in the excitement of things…”

Darcy and Harry give each other a sideways look, a look so alike that it almost makes Darcy laugh incredulously. But she bites her tongue and continues to watch the fake Moody’s face, waiting for the smallest sign of a transformation—the anticipation of it all almost too much. But then she remembers what Harry had said about seeing Barty Crouch on the map the night that Snape’s office had been broken into. _Could it be Barty Crouch? Is this where he’s been hiding? Or was the map wrong?_ And she can hear Lupin’s voice in her head— _the map’s never wrong_.

And after minutes of silence, Darcy catches sight of a change. The scars are disappearing and his skin is smoothing out, his hair is pulled back into his scalp and his nose lengthens. She jumps when the magical eye is forced out of its socket as the man’s real eyes grows in and the wooden leg falls to the ground with what seems like a resounding crash, making Darcy’s head hurt. And when he finishes transforming, Darcy finds she doesn’t recognize him at all—it’s certainly not Barty Crouch. This man is much younger, but there’s a weary and gaunt look to him, his freckles prominent against his pale, pale skin. He may have been handsome once, even, but Darcy can’t help to think he’s ugly with such fair hair and the circles beneath his eyes.

Harry grips Darcy’s arm. “It’s _him_ ,” he whispers.

“Who?”

But Harry doesn’t get the chance to answer. The door to Moody’s office opens quickly again and Snape tumbles over the threshold, a sobbing house-elf at his heels. Professor McGonagall follows him inside, and Snape freezes. “Barty Crouch!”

“What?” Darcy asks, her chest heaving. She looks at the man on the floor, shaking her head. “That’s not—that’s not Barty Crouch—”

“His son,” Snape explains quietly, holding out a bottle of what is likely Veritaserum. Dumbledore takes it from him, attempting to calm the crying house-elf. “Barty Crouch Junior.”

“His—son?” Darcy stammers, running a hand through her hair. “But he’s—I thought—he’s dead—”

“We will find out the truth soon enough,” Dumbledore tells her, forcing three small drops of potion into Crouch’s mouth and touching the tip of his wand to Crouch’s chest. “ _Ennervate_.”

Harry takes a step forward, curious. Darcy reaches out for his shirt to pull him back, but Snape shakes his head, holding her arm and keeping her at his side. As Crouch’s eyes flicker open and Dumbledore asks him for the truth, Darcy remembers the night of the Shrieking Shack. All of the emotions she’d felt that night come rushing back to her—hearing Lupin and Sirius tell their side of the story, to see Peter Pettigrew sniveling at her feet. She wishes Lupin were here now, holding her hand, bringing her comfort that Snape could never bring her.

As Barty Crouch tells his story of his escape from Azkaban, Darcy almost doesn’t believe it. It sounds so outrageous, but so had Sirius’s story—so had Lupin’s. She has a hard time believing law abiding, Dark wizard hating, Barty Crouch would be convinced by his dying wife to rescue his son from Azkaban with Polyjuice Potion, that he’d smuggled his son out and left his wife in Azkaban, that he had let her die in Azkaban for their scoundrel son, but it _must_ be true—Darcy had watched Dumbledore give him the Veritaserum. Winky the house-elf continues to cry through her fingers, begging Barty Crouch to stop, to stop before he gets his father into trouble, but everyone ignores her.

But the story only gets stranger and stranger, and several times, Harry glances over his shoulder just to give Darcy a blank look before turning back to Crouch. To think that Barty Crouch had his Death Eater son nursed back to health, hidden under an Invisibility Cloak in his own home to keep him safe under the Imperius Curse… She thinks of Sirius, of the lack of mercy and compassion Barty Crouch had towards her godfather by not even giving him a trial. He had left Sirius in Azkaban to _rot_ without allowing him to chance to tell everyone the truth, yet he went through so much trouble to rescue and protect his son—his _guilty_ son.

“Bertha Jorkins came by my father’s house while he wasn’t home,” Crouch continues, and Darcy looks at him with disgust. “She heard Winky talking me. She heard enough to guess who she was talking to. Bertha confronted my father and he performed a Memory Charm so powerful it damaged her memory permanently.”

Darcy looks up slowly to meet Snape’s eyes. How can this be true? She hopes he can read her mind, silently begs him to tell her it’s all a lie—that she’ll wake tomorrow and it will be the morning of the third task again, and Harry will emerge smiling with the Cup help high above his head.

“We sat in the Top Box. Winky said she was saving a seat for my father, but I was sitting there…”

Darcy takes a step back, her heart beating very fast, backing into Snape’s side.

“I was able to fight the Imperius Curse in the Top Box. I saw it, in front of me, a boy’s wand. I stole it…”

Harry turns around again to mouth to Darcy, _mine_!

Crouch’s blank eyes and slight smirk makes Darcy uncomfortable. She shudders. “I casted the Dark Mark with the stolen wand.” Darcy feels her throat constrict. “My father knew I was nearby after he had found Winky. I was Stunned. He waited until the other Ministry workers left and placed me under the Imperius Curse and took me back home. He dismissed Winky.”

Winky cries harder, but Dumbledore shushes her politely. Instead of stopping, she cries into her tiny hands, muffling the sound.

Darcy shrinks into Snape when she sees the mad grin that spreads across Crouch’s face. “And then my master came for me in the arms of his servant, Wormtail.” Darcy scrunches his nose, disgust flooding her. “He had captured Bertha Jorkins in Albania and tortured her, broke through the Memory Charm my father had placed on her. She told him about the Triwizard Tournament, that Moody would be teaching at Hogwarts, that I had escaped from Azkaban. When he arrived at my father’s home, my father opened the door and had the Imperius Curse cast on him.”

Darcy remembers what Harry had told her about seeing Barty Crouch near the forest. _He wanted to tell Dumbledore. He was going to tell Dumbledore everything._

“He told me he needed a faithful servant at Hogwarts in order to help Harry Potter through the Triwizard Tournament, to ensure he would reach the Cup alone. He knew Darcy Potter would be teaching at Hogwarts and needed a way to get Harry alone.” Crouch’s blank eyes find Darcy and he continues to smile wickedly. Snape’s hand finds her shoulder again as Crouch licks his lips, looking at Dumbledore again. “Wormtail went back to my father’s house to care for my master and watch over my father.”

Dumbledore inclines his head. “But he escaped.”

“My father began to fight the Imperius Curse,” Crouch continues. “My master said it was no longer safe to let him leave the house. He made him write into the Ministry and say he was ill. But Wormtail was not watchful enough, and my master guessed my father was going to Hogwarts to confess to Dumbledore. He sent me word, so I waited, watching the Potter’s map. That map almost ruined everything.”

“The map?” Dumbledore turns slowly to face Darcy. She wishes he’d look at Harry instead. Her mouth goes dry, and Darcy cranes her head back to look at Snape and see his jaw clench. “What map is this?”

Darcy opens her mouth to give an apologetic answer, but Crouch cuts her off again. “Their map of Hogwarts. Harry saw me in Snape’s office, but mistook me for my father. I took the map from him that night.” She snarls, unable to believe it—not wanting to listen to anymore. “I saw my father arrive with the map. I waited with my Invisibility Cloak. Potter ran for Dumbledore. I Stunned Krum and killed my father.”

Winky lets out a loud wail, and Darcy has the sudden urge to kick her, to shut her up. The crying is making her anxious, making her tremble and afraid. She’s trying to digest everything Crouch has been saying, but it’s so damn hard with Winky crying constantly—a shrill cry that echoes in Darcy’s head.

“Where is his body?” Dumbledore asks firmly.

“I Transfigured his body into a bone and buried it in Hagrid’s lawn under the fresh dirt.”

There’s silence then, save for Winky. Darcy moves, reaching out for Harry, but Snape stops her again, holding her close to his side. “And tonight?” Dumbledore says again.

Crouch smiles again, an unsettling smile. “I turned the Cup into a Portkey,” he says, and Darcy forgets to breathe as his smile becomes more insane. “My master’s plan worked. He is returned to power.”

Harry turns around slowly as Crouch’s eyes close slowly, his head lolling. He looks at Darcy for a long time, the same fear in his eyes as when he’d returned with the Cup, and she begins to cry.

_The war is upon us now. Upon Harry. Upon me._

 


	58. Chapter 58

Darcy follows Dumbledore and Harry without meaning to. Her legs take her one step closer to their destination—one step, and another, and another. _I told Professor Dumbledore my suspicions, even if they weren’t entirely accurate, she thinks. I told someone and nothing could be done to stop it. Why did I think anyone could have done anything? The one piece we were missing was right in front of us the entire time._

Her anger at Dumbledore outweighs everything right now—likely because the other feelings haven’t been given time to settle in. Her anger that Dumbledore could possibly be fooled by a Death Eater. How could he have let this happen? How could he have allowed Barty Crouch Junior to live, eat, and teach inside the walls of Hogwarts for near a year—even after assuring Darcy that Hogwarts is the safest place for her and Harry?

But she’s afraid, terribly afraid. She’s afraid to hear what happened tonight before Harry came back with Cedric. She’s afraid to hear where he went, what he saw. Harry seems more afraid than she’s ever known—his face is drawn, making him seem older than fourteen, drained of all color and exhausted. He moves slowly in front of her, shoulders slumped and legs shaking with each step he takes. All Darcy wants to do is hold him, take the pain away, to take on his suffering and make him forget everything that’s happened tonight. It seems cruel, she thinks, that someone so young should have to go through something so terrifying, so hard.

_That’s been my entire life. But Harry doesn’t deserve that._

Harry looks over his shoulder to meet her eyes. He slows his pace for a moment to let her catch up, and when she does, he takes Darcy’s hand in his. She isn’t sure if he’s seeking comfort from her, or attempting to comfort her, but the gesture makes her heart full and clears her head for the time being. He squeezes gently, silently communicating that _it’ll be all right_. She doesn’t know if she quite believes it, but it’s a start, and with Harry’s hand in hers, she finds the strength to keep walking.

Darcy exhales loudly as Dumbledore gives the password to the stone gargoyle outside of his office. They slowly make their way up the stairs, Harry pulling Darcy behind him on the narrow staircase. Beyond the oak door to his study, Darcy barely makes it inside before she’s swept up in Sirius’s arms—her and Harry both being held to him. He retracts his arms from them far too soon and Darcy almost protests, but she helps Sirius guide Harry to the chair opposite Dumbledore’s currently vacated one, and he sits without a word.

“Are you all right?” Sirius asks quickly, more to Harry than to Darcy. “What happened, Harry?”

Dumbledore offers Harry mercy, instead recalling himself what had taken place in Moody’s office. Darcy feels tears build in her eyes again, and when Sirius glances at her and notices she’s crying, he frowns and reaches out for her hand. As Dumbledore continues to speak, Darcy grasps his hand as tight as she can, allowing Sirius to pull her close. He wipes her cheeks and wraps an arm around her, his other hand on Harry’s shoulder. Darcy buries her face in Sirius’s shoulder, crying onto his stained shirt.

When Dumbledore finishes speaking, he seats himself behind his desk, looking at Harry with such a piercing gaze that he must be trying to read her brother’s mind. Harry hardly moves, hardly registers what’s going on around him, and Dumbledore—in the softest and gentlest tone she’s ever heard from him—says, “I need to know what happened after you touched the Portkey, Harry.”

“He can wait until tomorrow for that, can’t he?” Sirius snaps, not removing his arm from around Darcy and not lifting his hand from Harry’s shoulder. “Let him rest. Let him sleep.”

“If I thought I could help you by postponing this moment, I would, but I know better,” Dumbledore says again, ignoring Sirius. “Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it.”

The weight of these words strike a chord with Darcy. After years of pain, of not being able to speak with anyone about what she’d been through, the pain had been worse when finally given the chance to speak about it. For years she had bottled everything up, only for it to come spilling out of her so many years later, more painful than she could have imagined. And it’s these words that make her break from Sirius to kneel in front of Harry. Darcy takes his hands in hers and he looks at her blankly, his green eyes watery. _What kind of person did I need when I was a little girl?_ She tries very hard to make herself be that person for Harry now.

“Harry,” she whispers, forcing herself to smile up at him. “You’ve been so brave tonight, and I am so proud of you. But we need you to be brave for just a little while longer.” Darcy touches his cheek when Harry looks away from her. “Look at me, Harry, only me.”

He does, and Darcy smiles bigger, brushing the single tear away that falls down his cheek.

“Tell me what happened, Harry.”

Being very careful as to look directly into Darcy’s face, Harry begins to speak. He tells her how he and Cedric had taken the Cup together and were transported to a graveyard, and how Wormtail had been ordered to kill Cedric, leaving Harry in shock. He explains how Wormtail had bound him to Tom Riddle’s grave to watch the horrifying scene take place. Voldemort had been no bigger than an infant, Harry says, and Wormtail had taken bone dust from Tom Riddle Senior, how he had taken Harry’s own blood and Wormtail’s own hand and added them both to a cauldron—

Harry jumps, and Darcy turns around to find Dumbledore on his feet, already at Harry’s side. He takes Harry’s arm, where there’s a still a long, untreated cut. Dumbledore examines it carefully.

Still looking at Darcy, Harry continues. “He said using my blood would make him stronger,” he explains. “He said that he’d have the protection that my mother left in me, and he was right—he could touch me without hurting.”

“It’s all right, Harry,” Darcy breathes. “Keep going.”

He obliges, detailing how a fully grown Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron and touched Wormtail’s Dark Mark in order to summon his Death Eaters. He begins to falter then, and Darcy squeezes his hands, urging him on. Voldemort had bragged about murdering his Muggle father, had told Harry his witch mother had died giving birth to him, forcing him to grow up in a Muggle orphanage. The Death Eaters had arrived, Harry says, and Voldemort had criticized them all for not seeking him out, accused them all of being fearful of his return instead of joyous, and how Wormtail had earned a new, silver hand for being faithful.

“Gemma’s parents were there,” Harry cries, and Darcy holds his face, shaking her head. “Gemma’s parents—”

“It’s all right, Harry,” she tells him. “You’re safe, and you’re so brave. What happened next?”

Harry, in a slightly stronger voice, keeps telling the story. He’s more confident now, it seems, now that he’s started, he seems eager to finish. Harry explains the protection Lily Potter had given him when she died for them, and that’s why he can touch Harry now. Voldemort had told his Death Eaters about how he had fled to Albania, without even his body, how he’d met Quirrel and returned again to Albania after Quirrel had been killed. He recounts Voldemort’s version of events with Bertha Jorkins, how Wormtail had brought her to Voldemort.

“He let me go,” Harry says breathlessly, still looking into Darcy’s eyes. “He wanted to duel—to prove who was the better wizard in front of all of his Death Eaters. I wouldn’t bow to him, Darcy, and when he tried to use the Imperius Curse, I—I broke it.”

Darcy smiles again, nodding. “I know,” she says. “You’re so strong, Harry.”

“And when we dueled—our wands—they connected…”

Darcy’s brow furrows and she opens her mouth to ask for an explanation, but it’s Sirius who speaks to Dumbledore. “Why would the wands connect?”

“Priori Incantatem,” Dumbledore muses.

This means nothing to Darcy, but she doesn’t look away from Harry. Her knees begin to ache from kneeling upon the hard ground, and she brushes Harry’s hair out of his face.

“The Reverse Spell effect?” Sirius asks.

“Harry’s wand and Voldemort’s wand share cores—a feather from the tail of a phoenix. Such wands will not work properly against each other, and will regurgitate previously cast spells, the most recent first. I am assuming you saw some form of Cedric, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry answers, looking at Dumbledore for the first time. Darcy rises slowly to her feet, dreading what will come out of his mouth next. “There were others—an old man, Bertha Jorkins, and…” Harry looks at Darcy again, heartbroken.

“Our parents?” she finishes for him, so quiet she isn’t sure she’s said it herself, but Harry nods.

“They held him off while I—while I grabbed Cedric and the Portkey, and then we were back.”

Dumbledore takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “Your sister is very right, Harry,” he finally says. “You have shown bravery far beyond what I could ever have expected of you. Now, I do not want you returning to your dormitory tonight. I will bring you to the hospital wing, and Madam Pomfrey will be able to give you a Sleeping Draught to give you dreamless sleep. Sirius—would you like to stay with your godchildren?”

Sirius nods, and before Darcy’s very eyes, transforms into the shaggy black dog. He leads Harry across the study, and Dumbledore puts a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Harry, would you wait for us outside my study? I would like a quick word with your sister alone.”

Harry nods, following Sirius through the door. As soon as the door closes, Darcy breaks down into sobs, and Dumbledore touches her arms, trying to calm her. Her heart is pounding a mile a minute, everything she’d been holding back from Harry seeing comes spilling out of her. The tears come and don’t stop and Darcy grips the front of Dumbledore’s robes to keep her steady. He helps her into the chair Harry had just been seated in. She wipes her eyes furiously, trying to keep her sobs quiet in case Harry can hear them from the other side of the door.

“I am so proud of you, Darcy,” Dumbledore says, and when she looks up into his face, she notices his eyes are swimming with tears. “Your mother and father would be so proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Darcy replies, trying to smile. “Thank you.”

“You did not face Voldemort tonight,” he continues, “but you have shown a different sort of bravery. I want to thank you for helping Harry through his story.”

Darcy can only nod, and Dumbledore extends a hand to her, helping her to her feet. He keeps his fingers clasped around her shoulder as they leave the study. Sirius rubs against her leg before trotting down the staircase. The walk to the hospital wing is the longest walk she’s ever known, and when they finally arrive, it’s to find a crowd of people—Bill and Mrs. Weasley are still here, along with Lupin and Gemma, and Ron and Hermione. When Mrs. Weasley nearly throws herself at Harry, Dumbledore stops her, asks that they respect Harry’s privacy if they decide to stay, asking them to let him sleep.

Once Harry changes into clean pajamas, Darcy helps him into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin. She smiles down at him, remembering Harry as a five-year-old boy, waiting eagerly for a story before going to sleep. Madam Pomfrey brings him a Sleeping Draught, throwing a look at Darcy before giving it to him. “Your sister is familiar with this particular potion,” she says softly. “Drink, Potter.”

Darcy gives Harry a reassuring nod, kissing his forehead before stepping away. “Now, Headmaster,” Madam Pomfrey says again, warily looking at Sirius, “about the dog.”

“The dog will remain with Harry and Darcy for the time being,” Dumbledore answers, giving Darcy one last pat on the shoulder. “He is very well trained, I assure you.”

They all wait while Harry drifts off to sleep quickly, and, all at once, everyone turns to Dumbledore looking for an explanation. Darcy draws up a chair beside Harry’s bed, holding his hand and looking down at him. Sirius curls up at her feet and she scratches his head for a moment.

Dumbledore hesitates. “Darcy, Gemma, Remus—a private word, please.”

Darcy doesn’t make a move to get up, so content with Harry and Sirius at her side, but Lupin touches her elbow and without a second though, Darcy goes with him. Gemma seems nervous, uncharacteristically anxious. With Lupin’s hand on the small of Darcy’s back bringing her comfort, Darcy wishes to do the same for her friend. Pausing for a moment, she reaches out for Gemma’s hand and is pleasantly surprised when Gemma laces their fingers together, squeezing tight. Dumbledore brings them just outside the hospital wing, closing the doors and looking at Gemma curiously.

“Voldemort called his Death Eaters back tonight,” he tells them all. “Voldemort has risen again.”

“My parents were there.” It’s not a question, but a bold statement, even for Gemma. Her words are harsh and angry, bitter even.

“I’d like for you to go home for the night, Gemma,” Dumbledore frowns. “I would hate for your parents to be wondering where their daughter is on this night, and I would hate for them to find out you have spent tonight at Darcy’s side—and Harry’s.”

Gemma clenches her jaw and swallows, tightening her grip on Darcy’s hand. She gives both Darcy and Lupin a sideways glance before answering. “I won’t,” she says. “I _won’t_. You can’t make me.”

“Gemma, I understand and appreciate your reluctance,” Dumbledore sighs, exhausted after the evening’s events. “But your place, tonight, is with your parents. If Voldemort should come looking after the of-age daughter of his faithful Death Eaters—”

“With all due respect, sir,” Gemma spits, and Darcy raises her eyebrows, never letting go of her hand. “My place is here, with my friends. I am nothing like my parents.”

“I don’t think you have to tell any of us,” Dumbledore notes, inclining his head and holding his hands behind his back. “You are right—I cannot make you do anything. But I am asking you, after what has been a very long evening, to return to your parents for this night. Then, you may come back and stay with Darcy until she leaves Hogwarts. I will not force you to stay with your parents if you do not wish—not when there are beds available for you here, and not when your friends are here worrying for you.”

And to everyone’s disbelief, Gemma begins to cry. Darcy feels suddenly bad for Gemma, to be caught between two different worlds with no one to hold her at night, with no one to comfort her when she bottles up her feelings. Dumbledore watches on with a rather surprised look on his face, but makes no move to comfort her. “If I go back—if You-Know-Who finds out what I’ve done—who I’m with—” Gemma’s face is full of pain, of fear, and when she speaks next, her voice is soft. “He’ll _kill_ me.”

“To hide right now under my protection would be a foolish and grave mistake.” Dumbledore sighs heavily again. “When the morning comes, you will go to St Mungo’s as you always do, and I want you to come straight back. I want to keep you safe, Gemma, but I do not want to give Voldemort or your parents reason to suspect or doubt you. I promise you—I will not let Voldemort kill you.”

It’s a heavy promise—one that Darcy doesn’t quite trust, but the prospect frightens her. Gemma takes a moment to compose herself, and Darcy hugs her, letting Gemma wipe her face against her shoulder. Lifting her head, Gemma looks into Darcy’s face. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Darcy takes a step back from her friend, and Dumbledore escorts Gemma away, leaving Darcy alone with Lupin. She turns to him, falling into his chest. “You’ll stay with me tonight, won’t you?”

“Of course.” He lifts a hand to touch her face, tilting her face back to look up at him. “Are you all right?”

“It’s Harry you should be worried about.”

“Of course I’m worried about Harry.” Lupin brushes his thumb over her cheek. “But I’m asking about you.”

Darcy considers him, unsure of what to say. The amount of emotions she’s feeling makes it hard to tell them apart. They’re exhausting and make her want to sleep for ten years. “I’m alive.”

She knows by the curious look on his face that Lupin wants to ask what happened. She’d want to know, if she were in his place. But so much has happened that she doesn’t know where to start, or how to tell it to do the story justice. And besides, it’s Harry’s story—it’s his place to tell it when he’s ready, and Darcy will not take that from her brother, not even with Lupin. She’s very grateful when he decides not to ask the question.

“Do you think Gemma will be all right?” Darcy whispers, afraid to hear the answer.

“I think she’ll be fine.” Lupin kisses her forehead softly. “Let’s go back inside, my love.”

When they do re-enter the hospital wing, it’s to find many chairs surrounding Harry’s bed. Hermione turns to see them, immediately stiffening in her seat. “Where’s Gemma?”

“She’ll be back,” Darcy replies, giving Hermione a forced smile.

Darcy settles into the bed beside Harry, with everyone’s backs turned on her. Lupin pulls a chair up beside her, too big to share the bed with her. She pulls the blankets up and looks at him, forcing her to turn her own back on Harry. Darcy reaches out to hold his hand and Madam Pomfrey hurries over suddenly with the same purple potion she’d given Harry. Darcy thanks the matron, but politely declines, asking to save it for later.

“You should get some sleep,” Lupin says quietly, his thumb running over her knuckles. “It might be good not to have dreams tonight.” He brings her hand to his lips and kisses her fingers.

Darcy licks her lips. “Come here.”

Lupin blushes slightly, looking at everyone. “I shouldn’t. I’ll be here all night, don’t worry.”

She must look very sad, for Lupin sighs after a moment of looking at her, rubbing his face and mussing up his hair. He pulls the curtain around them shut, but no one says anything to him. When he does climb into the bed, his chest is pressed tight against Darcy’s back, his arm around her, legs tangled together.

“Get some sleep, Darcy.” He smooths her hair back and kisses just behind her ear.

Darcy turns her head, burying her face in her pillow, allowing herself to cry silently. It’s a tight fit on the bed, but it feels better to be held. It’s easier to relax with someone beside her. It’s easier to put on a brave face for Harry when she knows someone is waiting to put on a brave face for her.

She doesn’t doubt her nightmares will come back, but Darcy is so exhausted that she doesn’t dream of anything.

* * *

They’d been arguing for a while now. Darcy and Lupin sit in the corner of the hospital wing, far from Cornelius Fudge, Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, Professor Dumbledore, Harry, and Harry’s visitors.

Privately, Darcy’s never trusted Cornelius Fudge. He never did seem to be as capable as people would have him believe—and maybe that view of him is biased, considering the events of last year after he’d refused to hear out Sirius’s side of the story—and she remembers how often he’d been in and out of Hogwarts to seek Dumbledore’s advice. So it’s very odd to her, and very frustrating and angering and ridiculous that Fudge can stand there, presented with evidence from witnesses of last night’s events, and so vehemently deny the truth. Once he had started questioning Harry’s sanity and credibility, Darcy had forgotten herself, shouting herself hoarse that Voldemort was back, and if he’d had a shred of sense and a shred of dignity, he’d tell the people the truth. Fudge’s face has flushed purple just like Vernon at his angriest, and Fudge had hissed—“I will not be spoken to like that by a girl who sleeps with werewolves!”

There had been a heavy silence afterwards for a few moments as everyone blinked in surprise. Fudge had seemed to realize his mistake too late, as a roar of outrage drowned his feeble apology (Professor McGonagall had been the first to raise an outcry at Fudge’s words, looking as if prepared to hex him, and Professor Snape had scowled, but hadn’t raised a word). Dumbledore had also been furious at Fudge’s precjudiced tone, but the look he gave Darcy had silenced her immediately, and Lupin had ushered her away before anything else came out of her mouth.

And the worst part is, Fudge had thought it necessary to bring a dementor to the school in order to perform the Kiss on Barty Crouch Junior—again, showing that he was as stubborn as a mule, hard-headed and unwilling to listen to all sides of a story or consider any other options but his own. Yet as the minutes tick on and Fudge continues to refuse Harry’s view of events and Dumbledore’s, Darcy sees the Headmaster become angry—perhaps not as angry as he’d been last night when confronting Barty Crouch Junior, but still a terrifying anger and a very commanding presence.

Darcy thinks Dumbledore’s requests are reasonable—attempt to make alliances with those Voldemort might also seek out, part with the dementors, begin to prepare to stop Voldemort from regaining old followers. They’re good ideas, easily helped along with the Ministry behind him, but Fudge still refuses, power-hungry, a desire to be liked burning in him. Darcy looks to Lupin, standing with his back against the wall, watching closely, his teeth grinding. When she looks back again, Snape has his left sleeve pulled up, revealing the Dark Mark branded on his arm. The sight doesn’t shock her as much as she thought seeing it would shock her, but she catches Snape’s eye for a half-second across the hospital wing and his gaze makes her slightly uncomfortable.

Horrified and utterly confused, Fudge decides now to take his leave, dropping Harry’s bag of a thousand Galleons at the foot of his bed. As he storms out, Darcy and Lupin make their way back to Harry’s bed. Dumbledore waits politely for them to settle back in their chairs.

“There is work to be done,” he announces gravely, his eyes roving over everyone watching him. “Molly, am I right in thinking I can count on you and Arthur?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Weasley replies, watching Sirius jump up onto the bed with Harry and Darcy. He’s far too big to be there, but she appreciates his company. Darcy pets his head, holding his face against his, grateful for any affection.

“Then I’ll need to send him a message,” Dumbledore continues, and Bill immediately volunteers. Dumbledore gives him further instructions, assigns Professor McGonagall to find Hagrid and Madame Maxime, tells Madam Pomfrey to find Winky the house-elf. Then, his eyes twinkle as he looks at Sirius. “Now, I think it’s two of our number to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius… if you could resume your usual form.”

Sirius hops down from the bed and transforms gracefully back into a man again. Mrs. Weasley screams loudly at the sight of him, and it takes a moment for both Ron and Dumbledore to calm her. But Snape looks furious. “ _Him_!” he shouts.

Darcy and Lupin both exchange an amused look—despite everything—when Dumbledore makes Sirius and Snape shake hands.

“Sirius, Remus,” Dumbledore begins again, appeased at Sirius and Snape’s moment of peace. “I will ask you to alert Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher, and our old crowd. Remus, would it be too much if I ask Sirius to stay with you for the foreseeable future?”

Lupin shrugs casually. “No, not at all.” Then, shifting uncomfortably, as if a young boy caught in a lie, he adds, “I can leave after—you know—”

Snape scrunches his nose and looks away; Sirius and Mrs. Weasley continue to glare at Lupin. Dumbledore seems to understands and gives him a small smile. “After you have said goodbye to Darcy, of course.”

Looking apologetically to Sirius, Lupin mutters, “You know where you’re going?” he asks, and Sirius nods, kissing Darcy on the head and clasping Harry’s hand. With a nod to Dumbledore, Sirius transforms again into a dog and lets himself out of the hospital wing.

Finally, Dumbledore turns to Snape. “Severus, you know what I must ask you to do.”

Snape stands up straighter and Darcy’s brow furrows. “I’m ready.”

“Then good luck.”

Snape gives a curt nod, sweeping past Dumbledore. Darcy doesn’t know why she calls after him, but she shouts, “ _Wait_!”

Pausing only for a moment at the doors, Snape glances over his shoulder at her, but then quickly pushes through, disappearing from sight. Her heart pumping furiously in her chest, Darcy looks at Dumbledore.

“Where is he going?” she asks sharply.

Dumbledore only gives her a small smile. “That is between myself and Professor Snape, Darcy.”

“I only meant—” Darcy looks at Lupin sheepishly, flushing a deep red. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”

Considering her, Dumbledore decides not to answer. “I must go speak with the Diggory’s. Darcy, perhaps you’d like to say goodbye to Remus? And Harry, drink the rest of your potion.”

Nodding awkwardly, Darcy rises from the bed and bends over to say goodbye to Harry. She kisses his forehead, hugging him tightly. Harry sniffles against her shoulder. “I’ll be back,” she says, pulling away and catching up with Lupin at the doors.

The walk back to her room is completely silent. It’s not a comfortable one, either. Darcy wraps her arms around herself protectively, wondering how someone who can warm her entire body feel so suddenly cold. Lupin gives the password to her portrait and it swings open for him.

She follows him to the back room where he begins to gather her things, stuffing them into a bag. Darcy’s stomach begins to churn, and bile rises in her throat. “You believe him, don’t you? That Voldemort’s back?”

“You don’t actually believe that I’d doubt him? He says Voldemort is back, and Dumbledore says Voldemort is back—why would I deny it?” Lupin’s tone is strained, but not unkind.

“I thought we’d have more time,” Darcy admits, sitting on the edge of the bed, her arms still around her. “I didn’t think Voldemort would come back so soon. Or maybe I didn’t want to believe it.”

Lupin stands up straight, turning slowly to face her. He looks at her for a long time before kneeling before her, holding her face in his hands. Kissing her, Darcy melts into him just as he pulls away. “Marry me, Darcy—we’ll find a place far away from this, where we can be safe.”

Darcy stammers wordlessly for a moment. “I can’t—not now—please, not now—” Not when Harry needs me more than ever. “Besides, I will be safe—here, at Hogwarts. When I come back, Dumbledore will—”

“When you come back?” Lupin repeats, frowning, lowering his hands from her face. “For another year? Darcy, how long do you plan on returning?”

She pushes him away gently to stand. He stands with her. “As long as necessary,” she says. “What does it matter?”

“Voldemort is back, the war is begun again, and I—” He runs a hand through his hair. “How long will I have to have you like this? Weekends at mine and two evenings at Hogwarts? Run away with me—Dumbledore will understand. We could be a family, just like you wanted.”

“I have a family,” Darcy rasps, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. “Harry. And he’s here, at Hogwarts. I would rather die fighting to protect Harry—against Voldemort—than run away, knowing I’ve left him.” She feels her heart break painfully in her chest, looking up at him. “I’m sorry it’s not enough for you.”

Lupin sighs, and he shrugs as if he doesn’t know what else to say. “No,” he answers after a long pause. “It’s not enough for me.”

“You truly believe I’d run away with you right now? After all that’s happened in the past night alone? I thought you were going to fight if the war came.” Darcy realizes too late he doesn’t know what’s happened at all in the past night, and feels bad for spitting the words at him. But she wants him to hurt for the moment, to make him understand how she feels. “You’re a coward.”

He flinches, as if Darcy has slapped him. “Does it make me a coward for wanting to spend what little remains of my life with you?”

“It makes you a coward to choose what is easy over what is right,” Darcy retorts in a low voice. When Lupin doesn’t have an answer for her, she continues. “I know why you don’t like me at Hogwarts. You don’t like the idea of me spending so much time with Professor Snape, do you?”

Lupin’s cheeks turn pink and he sputters. “Well—that’s just—beside the point—”

“I heard you and Gemma talking the night I—” Darcy trails off for a moment, clearing her throat. “I heard everything.”

“You are naive to think Snape doesn’t have some sort of—fondness for you.” Lupin crosses his arms over his chest, his face darkening. “And I’m not blind—I know that you’re fond of him, as well.”

Darcy shakes her head. “It’s not like that,” she cries. “Please, it’s not like that—”

“Then marry me, please,” Lupin whispers again, touching her shoulder and resting his forehead against hers, sounding desperate. “Come home with me, and we’ll be apart of the war together—”

“I—” Darcy takes a step back, her legs hitting the mattress. “I can’t. I’m not ready for that—I—Harry needs me right now, and I should be here until Dumbledore thinks it isn’t necessary anymore.”

Lupin grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and looking at Darcy with the saddest expression she’s ever seen. “I don’t know why you insist on doing this alone,” he says, and the words sound almost strangled. “I know how much you care for your brother, but he’s not a baby anymore, Darcy. He’s with Dumbledore—he’s safe here, and I—I can’t do this, I can’t sit here and wait for Harry to grow old—for you to realize you’re life is your own.”

“My life has never been my own.” Her heart feels like it’s being stabbed with a hot knife, over and over. Please not tonight, please.

“Then maybe—maybe we should take some time,” he finishes in a soft voice. “Until you’re ready to let Harry go and be with me.”

“No,” Darcy breathes, hardly able to catch her breath. “No, _please_ —don’t say that—”

“Come home with me.”

“I can’t,” she answers, hating herself for it. _You stupid girl, you stupid, stupid girl. Just go, you don’t have to come back. You can live the life you’ve always wanted_. “Voldemort is back, and he wants Harry dead, and I will not just leave him to his fate.”

Lupin shakes his head. “I have to go.”

“Please, no—” Darcy clutches the front of his shirt, reaching to kiss him, but he turns away. It only makes Darcy cry harder. “Please, I love you—we’ll sleep on it and tomorrow morning we’ll forget about it.”

“I can’t,” he says, backing away from her. “I can’t, Darcy. I’ve caused you enough trouble and enough grief already, and to hear the Minister of Magic say those things to you, I—maybe it’s better this way—”

“No,” Darcy whimpers, and she follows him back into the living space, grabbing hold of his hand until he pulls it away. “No, I don’t care what they say—please, don’t go—don’t leave me, please—”

“We’ll see each other again, I’m sure of it.” Lupin hesitates at the door, unable to meet Darcy’s eyes.

“If you leave right now, I’m not coming after you,” she says, hoping it will keep him from going.

“It’s better that way, Darcy.” He sighs again, looking up into her face once more. His mouth opens as if to say something else, but he shuts it after a moment, turning his back on her and letting himself out, leaving Darcy alone and crying. 


	59. Chapter 59

Darcy finds Hogwarts very lonely that day.

Before leaving her room, she takes down all the photographs that decorate the mantle and bookshelves, piling them on her bed. She looks through some of the first photographs she’d taken, to the pictures of Lupin giving the camera a goofy smile, the ones of Darcy at her most vulnerable, intimate pictures of Lupin still asleep. After a few minutes, she hides them all in her trunk, not wanting to look anymore. Even when she undresses for a bath and sees the scars on her shoulder, she hurts. Her fingers trace the raised, pink bumps lightly, wishing they’d go away, wishing she didn’t have to look upon them each time she takes her shirt off. Fumbling in her trunk and bag for a lone cigarette, she finds one at the bottom of her bag, reaching for her wand when she finds she lacks a lighter.

She nearly strips the skin off herself with how hard she scrubs in the bath. She scrubs his kisses off her body, his touches, the false promises murmured against her skin. Why didn’t anyone tell her how badly it hurt when someone left so willingly? Why didn’t anyone warn her that, even though she’d made the right choice, it would still hurt to make it, to live with it? _I lived a long time without him_ , she tells herself, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing until her skin is pink and as clean as it’s like to get. She takes a drag of her cigarette, flicking her hair out of her face. _I’ll be able to live without him again._ The smoke clouds around her, making the steamy air thick with it. _But it would be nice to live the rest of my life with him at my side._

With Harry still asleep, Darcy wanders the corridors. She visits Max in the Owlery, where he gives her affectionate nips on the fingers. Darcy wants to cry into his feathers, hoping to feel a little better, but the tears do not come. The tears had stopped once she was sure Lupin wasn’t coming back. The surplus of emotions have left her feeling numb, unable to process any sadness or anger or whatever she might be feeling. She almost sends him off with a letter to Lupin, just to let him know that she loves him with everything she has, but Darcy decides against it. Instead, she sends a letter to Mr. Weasley, thanking him for stopping by Hogwarts to visit the other day and letting him know what had happened between she and Lupin, if only to tell someone.

_How do I move on from this?_ she writes. _I made what I thought was the right choice, but how do I know for certain that it was the right thing? I don’t know how to move on._

Once Max flies off with the letter, there’s nothing left for Darcy there, so she retreats back down to the main of the castle. The corridors are full of students now—students who avoid her eyes and step wide around her as she passes. Not having attended breakfast, Darcy isn’t sure if Dumbledore had said anything regarding the events of the third task or what happened in Moody’s office, and she doesn’t go to lunch with the other students to find out, but instead her feet take her automatically lower into the bowels of Hogwarts, where the warm summer air doesn’t even reach. It’s cooler down here, and familiar, and Darcy pushes open the door of Snape’s empty classroom.

She isn’t sure when she expected Snape to return, but it privately concerns her that he isn’t back now. _It’s only been a few hours, just be patient_. She’s _sure_ she knows where he’s gone—what Dumbledore had sent him to do. But it makes Darcy feel good that Snape was returning to Voldemort on Dumbledore’s orders—it makes her feel less of a fool for trusting him, less of a fool for being fond of him. As much as she hates to admit it, considering that he _is_ cruel, he has shown her a certain kindness over the year. She hates herself for it, so, so much, but there’s a comfort in being in his classroom that she can’t quite explain. Of course Snape could never take the place of her father, of James Potter, who he hates so much, but certainly she doesn’t love him the way that she loves Lupin, the way she loves Gemma or Sirius or Mr. Weasley.

Darcy sits at Snape’s desk and looks around the dank and dimly lit classroom. It smells strongly of flowery ingredients today, vials of old potions lining the shelves in display, books that are crumbling apart at the spine, stubs of candles that don’t look to have been lit in years. With a slight feeling of recklessness, Darcy opens the desk drawer and peers inside, her heart leaping upon finding the S.P.E.W. badge still tucked away in the back corner. She takes it out and holds it gingerly with her fingers, brushing her thumb across the front to wipe off the dust.

She sighs heavily, holding her head in her hands and the cool badge to her forehead, closing her eyes. _I knew it would come to this,_ she thinks. _I knew I would have to make a choice in the end._ Darcy doesn’t know how long she sits there with her eyes shut, replaying the events of the previous night in her head, but shedding no tears. Even when she relives the events of the morning, she can’t find it in her to cry. _Whatever life I might have had is gone now, but at least I was able to have it for a little while. If only I could be young again—if only I could go back to a time where life wasn’t so hard and full of choices._

Eventually, the sound of the door opening makes her jump. With the S.P.E.W. badge still in her hand, she jumps to her feet, half-expecting Snape to enter. But it’s only Dumbledore, and he smiles at Darcy as he closes the door behind him. His eyes follow her hands as she hastily throws the badge back into the drawer and closes it.

“Not going through Professor Snape’s things, are we, Darcy?” Dumbledore asks, his eyes twinkling. She wonders how he could possibly still have the strength to make an amused remark.

“No, sir,” Darcy replies, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s a—shared space.”

“Please, sit.”

She does. He raises his eyebrows at her expectantly, as if knowing what she wants to ask. “When is Professor Snape going to come back, sir?”

“As soon as he is able,” Dumbledore answers, an answer Darcy doesn’t find suitable, but she decides for once to hold her tongue. “Professor Snape is quite fond of you, isn’t he?”

It’s the last thing she wants to talk about. She’s tired of everyone bringing it up, of finding it perhaps more peculiar than Darcy expects. She weighs her words carefully. “We have a good working relationship, Professor,” she finally says after a considerable silence. “Sir, I was wondering if I might come back next fall? As Professor Snape’s assistant?”

Dumbledore seats himself at the front desk, resting his elbows atop it and steepling his long fingers. “You have made your choice.” It is not a question, and Darcy is glad she doesn’t have to explain herself.

“Yes,” she rasps. Darcy expects him to praise her, to give her a proud smile. It would be so welcoming, to know that she has a reason to feel so sad.

“I have no objections to you returning in the fall,” Dumbledore tells her. “But I would not speak for Professor Snape. It is him you should be asking. I feel your chances of returning are very good, however.” He considers her a moment, surveying her closely with those striking eyes of his. “How are you feeling?”

_I’m not._ “I don’t think everything has sunken in yet.” Darcy swallows hard, sighing. “I am no stranger to fear, sir, you know that. But—I didn’t realize that it—it could hurt so badly.” She shakes her head, running a hand through her hair. “You’ll make sure he’s all right, won’t you, sir? I swear I’ll pay for his potion—I’ll make it myself—just—just make sure nothing happens to him, _please_.”

Dumbledore nods, a silent promise that Darcy fully believes of him.

“I don’t know what to tell Harry,” she confesses, feeling a weight off her chest. Darcy had tried to come up with something in the Owlery, but nothing had seemed right. “I don’t know how to tell him. I can’t tell him the truth—I can’t.” She pushes the thought to the back of her mind for the moment. “Have you heard anything from Gemma?”

“I have been informed that Gemma has arrived safely, yet shaken, at St Mungo’s,” Dumbledore assures her with a small smile. “I have always felt Gemma would have been more suited to Gryffindor—wouldn’t you agree?”

This makes Darcy smile for the first time since Lupin had left her standing in her room. It’s a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. “No,” she counters softly. “Gemma’s a Slytherin, and she’d tell you the same thing, sir.”

Dumbledore gives her a curious look, and to Darcy’s surprise, he chuckles. The ridiculousness of the entire situation hits Darcy then, and she begins to laugh with him. It’s then that she remembers something, and the thought of being distracted with simple, happy thoughts seems a freedom too good to be true, but she wants to ask anyway.

“Professor, is Ludo Bagman around? Is there a way you could send a message to him?” Darcy asks quickly, hoping perhaps too much that he’s available. “I’d like to see him very much.”

His lips purse tightly. “Mr. Bagman has not been seen since the end of the third task.” Dumbledore drums his fingertips on the desk. “It was brought to my attention that he had gotten himself into debt with the goblins, and felt it necessary to lie low for a while, it seems.”

Darcy hadn’t thought she could feel any worse, but the news that Ludo Bagman is missing only makes her feel more hollow. Her heart aches painfully in her chest, craving one of his soft kisses atop her head. “I see.” Darcy looks down at the desktop. “Have you had word of Emily? Did she get away safely?”

“I have sent a message to have Mr. Weasley to meet her at her home,” he explains, “so she can know the truth of what has happened among other things. It may be in her best interests to have her father under our protection if she is to join us.”

“Join you in what? In fighting?” Darcy sits up straighter in her chair, eyes flicking back to Dumbledore’s. “I want to fight too, sir.”

Dumbledore rises slowly to his feet, brushing off the front of his robes. “This summer, when you return to Privet Drive, I need you to always keep Harry in your sight. You are not to leave the house. Harry is not to leave the house. If you are to write letters, be careful of what you put in them. I want no mention of anything that might make the Ministry wary if they were to read your letters. Do you understand me?”

This should make Darcy angry, but it is no less than she expects, and it only irritates her. _A prison._ Grinding her jaw, she forces herself to answer. “Yes, sir.”

“And I would very much appreciate it if you would hold your tongue around the Minister of Magic from here on out.” Dumbledore doesn’t sound particularly unkind about it, but Darcy blushes and looks away, feeling ashamed of her outburst. “I do not want to give Cornelius Fudge any reason to think you are unfit for Hogwarts, and I would certainly hate to see him slander your name after speaking to him so. I am disappointed that the Minister said what he said to you, and I am deeply sorry, but please—no more.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Darcy mutters. “It won’t happen again, I promise. It’s just—why won’t he believe you? Why won’t he believe Harry?”

“Out of fear, Darcy,” Dumbledore answers, his voice slightly bitter. He narrows his eyes, as if determining how much to tell her. “The Minister of Magic has long believed me to be after his job, and likely believes this to be my grand plan of finally seizing power. He fears losing his title and influence and power within the Ministry by admitting Lord Voldemort is back.”

Darcy scoffs, unable to help herself. Dumbledore seems amused by her reaction. “Then he’s a coward,” she hisses. “He’s doing the people an injustice by not telling them Voldemort is back. When people start dying or going missing, what will he tell them?”

“You will go through life suffering many disappointments if you believe all men to be brave and honest.” The Headmaster shifts in his chair, and Darcy wonders how Fudge had ever come to power. A brave man should be Minister of Magic—one that doesn’t fear telling the people the truth. _Dumbledore would be a better Minister of Magic_. “Many men are greedy and easily corrupted by power. Cornelius Fudge is one of those men, and he has made it more difficult to do what must be done by denying the truth.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her anger at Fudge boiling. But it will not spill over—anger is exhausting, and she is far too tired already to feel such anger, even towards the Minister.

“I know how you must be feeling,” he continues, his tone genuine and kind.

“There’s a poem.”

“I thought there might be. Go on.”

Darcy swallows the lump in her throat, fingers trembling on the desktop, yearning for a cigarette to put to her lips. “I remember, I remember,” she says quietly, and Dumbledore smiles weakly, listening hard. “Where I was used to swing, and thought the air must rush as fresh to swallows on the wing.” Darcy frowns, feeling empty. “My spirit flew in feathers then, that is so heavy now, and summer pools could hardly cool this fever on my brow.”

“A beautiful excerpt.” Dumbledore looks sad, and it makes Darcy sad, too. “Thank you for sharing it with me. Is there more?”

She hesitates for a moment, trying to remember all the words. “I remember, I remember, the fir trees dark and high,” she starts again. “I used to think their slender tops were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, but now ‘tis little joy, to know I’m farther off from Heaven than when I was a boy.”

Dumbledore is quiet for a long time. Darcy blushes, feeling stupid for reciting poems—feeling too much like Aunt Petunia. “Darcy, if I could take on your pain and grief, your heartache and suffering, I would, but sadly I am unable to cure you of feeling emotions.” He stands slowly and Darcy stands with him, walking him across the classroom. Dumbledore places a comforting hand upon her shoulder before leaving.

_Who would I be without all of those things?_ she asks herself. _I wouldn’t be me if I hadn’t felt all of those things over and over again, all of my life._

Darcy gives Dumbledore a few minutes’ headstart before she leaves the classroom for the hospital wing. She closes the doors quietly behind her, glancing at Harry’s sleeping figure. As she creeps towards him, she jumps at the sound of a hissed word—“ _Potter_!”

Turning quickly, she finds the real Mad-Eye Moody half-sitting in his bed. He motions her to come closer and she does, reluctantly. Despite the fake Moody’s face being an exact copy of the real Moody’s, Darcy still thinks the real Moody’s face is slightly softer, his real eye less accusing as he looks at her. “How are you feeling?” she asks him gently, taking a seat in the empty chair beside his bed. “Would you like me to fetch Madam Pomfrey?”

Moody’s magical eye swivels suddenly, looking towards Madam Pomfrey’s office. “Don’t wake her,” he growls, but it’s not as harsh as she’s used to. “Wanted to see you properly with my own eye, didn’t I? Thought you’d look more like your mother. There’s definitely something James about you.”

Darcy blushes slightly, stiffening. It’s strange to hear such a thing—as far as she can remember, people had always commented on her likeness to her mother, but never to her father. It gives her a small sense of pride, but at the same time, still makes her bristle. “Remus said I’m very like my father,” she tells Moody, but she doesn’t know why.

“The way Albus tells it, you’re like your mother, and that sister of hers.”

Darcy snarls, her face flashing with anger. “I am _nothing_ like Petunia. Don’t you dare speak of her to me.”

Moody’s face darkens, but it seems he’s too exhausted to truly be angry with her retort. “He also told me you had an inconvenient habit of speaking out of turn,” he snaps. “I see that holds true.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” she frowns, blushing harder. “Is there anything I can do for you, or may I go to my brother now?”

Professor Moody waves her away. Darcy spends the rest of the afternoon at Harry’s side. She holds his hand while he sleeps, trying to figure out how she’ll possibly explain to Harry that Lupin had walked out on her. She can’t possibly tell Harry that he’d been part of the reason Lupin had left—not after all that had happened, not after Cedric. So she decides not to tell him, to play the part she needs to play, by offering him smiles and soothing words. Harry allows her to continue holding his hand even after he wakes, and come evening, when Madam Pomfrey gives him leave to go, Gemma finally arrives at Hogwarts. Darcy gives Harry a kiss before he leaves, and she’s glad that he doesn’t protest.

“Want to drown ourselves in alcohol and forget all of this?” Gemma suggests, looking very forlorn and too solemn for Darcy’s liking, but the suggestion appeals to her all the same.

Darcy has absolutely zero intentions of telling Gemma about Lupin as they walk into her room, but Gemma is too smart for her own good and stops as she looks around, dropping her bag on the sofa.

“Where are all of your pictures?” she asks, giving Darcy a sad look. When Darcy doesn’t answer, Gemma gives a loud sigh. “ _Shit_ , Darcy. You can’t catch a break, can you?”

They drink for a long time before the fire, clad in pajamas, filling the room with cigarette smoke. Neither of them cry, but it seems to Darcy that Gemma is on the brink sometimes. It’s only after her head begins to spin from the wine does Gemma finally speak about what happened when she had gone home.

“They weren’t at home when I arrived, but came into my bedroom late at night. They woke me,” she explains, her words slurring together, but Gemma has always been able to hold her alcohol well, and she continues. “I couldn’t look at them, out of disgust for what they’d done. My mother, who has done nothing but love me—I couldn’t look her in the eyes. My father, who worked so hard to secure me a place at St Mungo’s, who has given me everything—I hated him.”

Darcy takes another sip of wine, wondering how someone like Gemma could possibly be the child of Death Eaters. _They have done everything for her. They are her loving parents, and still she hates them._

“They told me they loved me,” she whispers. “Told me that they were not proud of the things they’ve done, but it was all to keep me safe. It has always been to keep me safe.”

“And do you believe them?”

Gemma hesitates, her jaw tensing, looking down into her cup of wine. “I do,” she answers, smiling mirthlessly, a forced smile. “Maybe I don’t believe in their cause, I don’t agree with the choices they’ve made and the way they’ve gone about it, but I know they’re doing it to keep me safe.”

Darcy feels a surge of sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Smythe, despite them being Death Eaters. She hates herself even more for it, but Gemma’s words are so sad and so genuine that it hurts her, too. “They didn’t have a choice,” Darcy says gently. “They didn’t have a choice that night—they _had_ to go back.”

“Or they could have fled, like Karkaroff did.” Gemma scrunches her nose, her face flashing with rage. “They could have chosen death over returning to You-Know-Who. My parents had a choice, and it is the idea that they made the wrong choice that doesn’t sit well with me.”

“If they fled or if they did refuse,” Darcy tries again, “Voldemort would have killed them, and you.”

And Gemma begins to cry again, sobbing so suddenly that it startles Darcy. Darcy helps her up from the sofa, walking her to the bedroom and getting her into bed. She climbs in beside Gemma, and the scene is so odd to her that it makes her almost nostalgic. How many times had Darcy been helped into bed by Emily, seeking comfort from someone sleeping beside her? How many times had she been in Gemma’s position, crying too hard to form sentences, crying tears that have been building for months?

Gemma finally calms herself, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She smiles at Darcy through the darkness, face to face with her. When she speaks, it’s in a soft and kind voice. Darcy feels like she’s eleven-years-old again, lying in bed with Emily and sharing secrets in their dormitory, whispering so as not to wake the other girls. “What happened, Darcy? Tell me.”

Darcy tells Gemma of the argument she’d had with Lupin—the argument that had started all because she mentioned returning to Hogwarts next fall. And as she tells her the story, she begins to cry again, and instead of feeling ashamed or weak, it feels _good_ to get the tears out. Gemma even wipes her cheeks for her, the good friend that she is.

“Everyone’s afraid,” Gemma breathes. “People do stupid things when they’re afraid.”

“Is it true when you broke up with Robert, you didn’t cry?” Darcy asks, and Gemma laughs very weakly. “Emily said you were heartless about it.”

“Of course it’s not true, but I had a reputation as a cold-hearted Slytherin to maintain,” she says. “My house-elf was the only one to see the tears. Believe me, there were many. My house-elf—she’s seen many sides of me I would not show others. She’s also seen me very, very drunk and has held my hair while I vomited more times than I can count.”

Darcy has to smile, wondering what Hermione would have to say about that.

“Do you want to know a secret, Darcy?”

She nods slowly.

“I always wanted a sister,” she admits, the corners of her lips turning very slightly upward. “I used to beg mum and dad for one, but they always refused. They’d tell me that I was all they ever wanted, and if they were to have another, it would be impossible to compete with me. So they got a house-elf instead, and tasked her with keeping me company and being my friend, as a sister would. But you can understand—a house-elf is no fit substitute for a sister.”

“No,” Darcy agrees. “I wouldn’t think so.”

“What you and Harry have,” Gemma continues quietly. “I wanted that—to be able to be open and honest and vulnerable with someone who loves me unconditionally, I—” She trails off, wetting her lips. “You’re the closest thing I have to a sister, Darcy. And I want you to know that I believe Harry—whatever his story, I believe him.”

This means more to Darcy than she can say. It doesn’t even matter than Lupin is gone, that Ludo Bagman has fled, that Snape may not come back, that Emily has not come to speak with her after what happened. All that matters to Darcy is that she does not have to feel so lonely, not with Gemma here. “Professor Dumbledore said something funny earlier,” Darcy says. “He said you should have been in Gryffindor.”

“No,” Gemma answers immediately, closing her eyes. “I’m a Slytherin.”

“I told him as much.”

Gemma smiles. Breaths stinking of smoke and wine, the heavy blankets making them damp with sweat, the two of them drift off to sleep holding each other as sisters might. 


	60. Chapter 60

“Can you get that?”

Gemma grunts back, shifting off the bed to answer the knocking at the portrait hole, and Darcy sighs, hoping it’s not Dumbledore checking in on her. She looks at herself for a long time in the mirror, a cigarette held between her trembling index and middle fingers, the smoke swirling around her head, giving her a gray halo. Clad in just her bra, Darcy’s eyes are drawn to the scars on her shoulder, remembering the way Lupin had shredded her shoulder to ribbons with such ease. They’re easy enough to cover with her hair—her hair so like her mother’s.

“What are you doing here?”

Darcy’s heart stops upon hearing Gemma’s words. For a split second, she thinks it might be Lupin coming back to sweep her into his arms, to hold her, to kiss her properly. Uncaring, Darcy puts her cigarette out in the sink with a fumbling hand, throwing a shirt on and nearly breaking the bathroom door down.

“It smells like a fucking pub in here,” comes Emily’s voice, and Darcy’s heart begins to race. When Darcy opens the bedroom door, she sees Emily waving dramatically around her head, her nose scrunched. When Emily sees her standing in the threshold, she lowers her arms. “Darcy.”

“Emily,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. The only other thing she can think to say is, “What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Weasley came to my house last night,” she explains, standing awkwardly with her hands at her sides. “He told me what happened—or, what he knew at least. What happened that night, Darcy?”

Darcy clenches her jaw and looks at Gemma. Gemma hadn’t pressed her for any details about it, only asked about Lupin, and for that she was thankful. But Darcy thinks if Gemma _had_ asked, she would have given the truth. Gemma had come back and consoled her, had stayed with Lupin to wait for her while things dissolved into chaos. Gemma had comforted her when she woke with nightmares just the previous night, had stayed awake with Darcy until she’d fallen back asleep. And Emily had left—had disappeared when Harry returned with Cedric’s body, had disappeared when Darcy needed her, and anger burns inside of her. “Where did you go? Why didn’t you stay?”

“I went home,” Emily answers, seemingly attempting to control her own anger, as well. “I went home to my father. I was afraid for him. Surely you understand.”

“You believe it, then?” Darcy asks. “You believe that Voldemort is back?”

Emily seems shocked that Darcy would suggest otherwise. She frowns. “Of course I believe Harry.” She moves to sit on the sofa, in front of a fire Gemma’s already started. “He’s offering my father Dumbledore’s protection. Dad won’t take him up on it. He refuses to leave. He has family in America, but he won’t go.”

Darcy doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps Mr. Duncan underestimates Voldemort in power. Perhaps he underestimates the Death Eaters, even after what they had done to his Beth, his wife, Emily’s mother. “And you? What are you going to do?”

Emily looks nervously from Darcy to Gemma, smiling weakly. “The three of us—we’re staying to fight, aren’t we?”

“What do you mean ‘us’ and ‘we’?” Gemma snaps suddenly, rising from her place before the fire. Her face is stony, and Emily fidgets anxiously on her feet. “You think you can just come back suddenly and everything will go back to normal? You’ve barely spoken to us all year, same as Carla. You disappeared the night that Darcy and Harry needed us the most. You disappeared at the first sign of trouble.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Emily answers breathlessly, her eyes wide. She wraps her arms around herself, sitting up straighter on the sofa. Darcy remains standing, looking at Emily curiously. “I didn’t know what was happening—I was afraid for dad—”

“I was here,” Gemma continues. “I made it so I could be here throughout the year and I chose to stay the night You-Know-Who came back—”

Emily scowls, becoming her usual self again, but blushing slightly. “You won’t even say his name—say it, Gemma, it’s _Voldemort_.”

“It doesn’t make me a coward for not saying his name,” Gemma hisses, her dark eyes flashing. They lack the warmth and slight sharpness they usually do. “You abandoned your friends. You abandoned us when we needed you.”

“You don’t know what it was like for me when mum died—”

“I know what it was like for you,” Darcy growls, tired of being angry, but unable to stop herself. “You allowed your father to blame me for what happened to your mum.” Her heart beats faster than ever, making her lightheaded. “It wasn’t my fault what happened to your mum. It wasn’t Harry’s fault.” And in an instant, a weight lifts from her shoulders. It’s a freeing feeling to not have such guilt weighing her down—saying it has made it true.

Emily’s eyes go wider. She tucks some of her hair behind her ears. “I’m sorry,” she says again, panicking. “You know I never believed that, and dad—dad was having a hard time, you know he didn’t mean it.” She looks as if she’s about to cry, but this makes Darcy feel almost victorious—her eyes are still dry. The thought instantly makes her feel bad for thinking it at all. “You replaced me,” she whispers, sounding hurt. “You replaced me with Professor Lupin.”

“She never replaced you—there was room for you among us and Darcy tried.” Gemma bristles. “You were so blinded by self-righteousness—just like you always were—that you refused to even acknowledge that he might even be a good person.”

Darcy nods slowly. She doesn’t want to talk about Lupin, not now, not in front of Emily. But it needs to be said, so she plunges on recklessly, hoping that the thought of him doesn’t bring on tears. “I wanted all of us to be friends,” she says gently. “All those times you weren’t there, I wished you were.”

“Darcy never pushed me aside for him unless I told her to,” Gemma continues, her voice sharp as a whip. “The three of us—” She exchanges a sideways look with Darcy. “They’re the best friends I ever had.”

Emily looks around cautiously, warily. “Where is Lupin?” Her tone suggests she already knows he’s not there, but Darcy decides to humor her.

“He had to go home,” she answers, very softly. Her body and emotions betray her; tears well in Darcy’s eyes, but she’s able to keep any from falling. “Professor Dumbledore had a job for him.”

Knowing Darcy all too well, Emily purses her lips. “He left you?” She gets slowly to her feet.

“I was forced to make a choice, and I made it,” Darcy tells her coldly. “It was better this way.”

“You’re going to stay here, with Harry? That was the choice, wasn’t it?” Emily asks. She sighs heavily, rubbing her temples. “You think I abandoned you, is that it? I was working my ass off at the Ministry—this is what I’ve worked so hard for, and I wasn’t about to just turn my back on it to be here with you all the time, Darcy. I’m done with Hogwarts—I’ve moved on.”

“I didn’t ask you to give up your dreams for me,” Darcy retorts, looking pleadingly to Gemma for help. She doesn’t want to say anything hurtful, but it’s hard to contain her anger. Part of Darcy wonders what Emily would say if she admitted she’d tried to drown herself. Maybe it would make Emily feel bad, or maybe it would earn Darcy a scolding. “No one asked that of you. But maybe you could have made more of an effort—an effort to get to know Remus, an effort to be happy for me.”

“I don’t trust him, and you know that,” Emily says, her eyes narrowed now. “I don’t trust any man who thinks it’s all right to sleep with a student of his—the daughter of his best friend—”

“For fuck’s sake, Emily—she’s just had her heart broken,” Gemma groans, running her hands down her face. Darcy’s glad Gemma has chosen now to speak. “He never took advantage of her—we all spent time together, ate together, laughed together, cried together, comforted each other—we were equals, and you missed out. You weren’t here, yet you come back and act like everything is fine.”

Emily inhales deeply, sensing defeat. With the silence pressing on them like a heavy blanket, Darcy takes a moment to remember all the things Emily has done for her. She had been there for seven years at Darcy’s side, had dreamed for seven years of going into the Ministry, of being an Auror—is it selfish of Darcy to have expected Emily to stay at Darcy’s side? But then again, Gemma had—Gemma had not only made it so she could be with Darcy, she had extended a hand of friendship to Lupin and even helped him through several full moons. Emily had done none of those things, least of all befriend Lupin.

“I was happy, Emily,” Darcy says finally, shrugging her shoulders. “Despite everything, I was happy, and you made it your sole purpose to hate him on principal.”

“I didn’t want to see you hurt,” Emily protests, her voice feeble and shaky. “I didn’t want to see you like this.”

Darcy swallows hard, shaking her head. “If you want to fight against Voldemort, then fight. We’ll be fighting too. But I’ve heard enough in regards to Remus this past year, and I don’t want to hear it from you, either. Whatever has happened between us, I will not let you tarnish his good name, not when he spent half of his days caring for me in ways you never did.” She licks her lips, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Go. Get out.”

Emily freezes for a moment in disbelief. She scoffs, sounding nervous, and looks to Gemma. Gemma doesn’t speak, only watches Emily with cold eyes. “You can’t be serious,” Emily whispers, as if this is all a big joke. “Seven years we were friends, and you’d throw me out over Lupin? After what he did to you?”

“Even apart, Remus will still be a part of my life. I know him, and he won’t just walk away from Harry because of this,” Darcy answers. “And if you can’t come to terms with that, then—then I don’t know what to tell you.”

There’s a moment of silence again, as the three of them breath heavily. And then Gemma takes Darcy by the arm. “Come on, Harry’s waiting for us.”

Darcy nods, allowing Gemma to lead her from the room, with Emily lowering herself to the sofa again, frowning.

* * *

“I know how you feel.” Harry runs a hand through his untidy, dark hair, looking out over the grounds with a pained expression. He grits his teeth, as if speaking the words physically hurts him. “Whenever I close my eyes, I see his face. Whenever I go to sleep, I’m back in the graveyard.”

Darcy holds her knees to her chest, resting her cheek upon them. She’s quiet for a time, knowing all too well what Harry’s feeling. She wants to comfort him, to tell him that everything will be all right, but she knows it won’t be. Thirteen years after her parents had been murdered and she still dreams of it despite her pleas and prayers for the nightmares to stop. But Harry has something she didn’t have when she was a child. “I didn’t have anyone to help me through this when I was younger,” she tells her brother softly. “I’ve found that grief is—slightly easier to deal with when you have people who love you.”

Harry doesn’t turn around to face Darcy. Despite the Astronomy Tower normally being quite breezy, the air is still today, and suffocating. Every so often, a shy gust of wind ruffles their hair, but stills almost immediately afterwards, leaving them uncomfortable in the warm.

“I wish I could have seen them, mum and dad,” she whispers. Harry looks for a second over his shoulder, frowning. “Was she still beautiful?”

“Yeah, she was.” His answer, so genuine and so heartfelt, makes Darcy want to cry. “Listen, when you’re with Lupin next year—”

He trails off at the sight of her sad smile. Harry turns around in earnest, his back to the grounds of Hogwarts. “I’m not going to be with Remus next year,” she shrugs, trying to keep herself from crying. “I’m coming back.” Harry narrows his eyes, but Darcy’s unsure if he has an idea of what she’s going to say, or if he genuinely doesn’t know. But she knows she has to tell her brother—him, of all people. “I don’t think you’ll be seeing as much of Remus next year, Harry.”

Harry shakes his head, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” When Darcy doesn’t give answer, Harry seems to finally understand. “Why? Not because of me?”

“No,” she lies quickly, never wanting Harry to bear that burden after what he’s been through. “I’m—not ready for what he wants, and he wasn’t satisfied with what we had.”

Maybe it’s the timing of Harry’s question. Maybe it’s that, despite everything Harry has seen and heard and experienced since the night of the third task, he still cares enough about Darcy’s wellbeing to ask, “Are you okay?” And it’s that question that makes her break down, sobbing into her hands at the memory of Lupin walking out, leaving her after promising it would be them forever.

Harry kneels beside her, finally sitting down on the hard floor. He allows Darcy a few minutes of silence to compose herself, to wipe her face free of tears. “I’m sad,” she sniffs, feeling that sad is an incredibly inadequate way of describing her feelings. “I’m being stupid, though, and I know it. I know that there are more important things—”

“It’s important to you, so it’s important to me.” Harry stands up, restless. He paces back and forth, his footsteps rattling the floor of the Astronomy Tower.

Darcy pushes herself to her feet, standing at the window to overlook the sunny grounds. Students are enjoying the sunshine, but the mood is somber. No one is swimming in the lake like usual, or giggling beneath shady trees. Harry approaches, standing shoulder to shoulder with her. “I think I knew it would always end like this,” she whispers, wiping at her eyes. “I just thought we’d have more time together before it ended. Another day, or a few more hours.”

Harry sighs heavily, still looking straight ahead. “What does this mean for us?” he asks, more innocently curious than anything. For a moment, Darcy forgets he’s only fourteen.

“I don’t know,” Darcy confesses. “But whatever happens, we’ll deal with it, just like we always have.”

And then, without warning, Harry starts to cry. She pretends not to see the few tears that fall down his blushing cheeks. “I was so scared,” he tells her quietly, as if it’s something to be ashamed of. “I was so scared he was going to kill me.”

Darcy wraps her arms around him, letting him cry into her shoulder. She kisses his head, resting her cheek atop his scruffy hair. Trying not the think of the pain it would cause her to lose Harry, Darcy closes her eyes, feeling the rush of the breeze that’s begun to pick up. When Harry calms himself, he stands straighter again, looking up at Darcy apologetically. He takes her hand loosely in his, and they stand there for a long time.

* * *

It’s easier with Gemma around.

As much as Darcy wishes it were Lupin beside her in the mornings upon waking, Darcy finds Gemma just as good company. Gemma’s ‘no touching rule’ had long been discarded, especially with Darcy thrashing most nights due to nightmares. It’s always a bad sign when she wakes with Gemma’s arms locked firmly around her to keep her in place, but Darcy craves to be held so badly lately that she doesn’t even mind it’s Gemma.

She and Gemma had spoken of Emily a few days after it happened, once they’d cooled down. Somedays, Darcy thinks she may have been too harsh on Emily simply because she had felt Tonks had taken her own place as Emily’s best friend. Other days, Darcy thinks she hadn’t been harsh enough. But she hadn’t voiced her doubts to Gemma when they’d spoken. Gemma was angry with Emily more than anything, frequently taking to calling her a coward whenever the subject was brought up after. A coward for disappearing once things turned bad, a coward for not looking more into Barty Crouch’s disappearance, a coward for not doing _more_. Darcy just nods while she goes on her rants, privately agreeing with many of the things she says. Gemma, however, had taken a few minutes to cheer Darcy on for finally standing up to Emily.

She’s surprised to find how much she misses Ludo Bagman. His presence had been a comfort to her, despite sometimes making her slightly uncomfortable. He’d never done it on purpose, and Darcy wonders if he ever had an ulterior motive, or if he just liked her. Darcy likes to believe he’d liked her and that was the end of it. He had become something of a father figure towards her—Darcy had looked forward to seeing a wicked grin on his face, to receiving a kiss upon her brow from him. She even wishes he’d take her by the hands and spin her, telling her how beautiful she looked, showering her with innocent compliments.

She ofttimes wonders how Sirius is, as well. She wishes he were here most of all, to let her lay her head in his lap as he strokes her hair. Darcy wants to be comforted by strong arms and kind words, sweet kisses and warm smiles. They’ve been hard to come by lately at Hogwarts. But curiosity always gets the better of her, and Darcy begins to wonder if Lupin told him what had happened between them—she wonders if Sirius had been furious, had defended his goddaughter against his old friend.

One day, as she and Gemma lounge in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey brings Darcy sudden news that Snape has returned to the castle. This makes Darcy sit up straight on the bed she’d been lying on, and she bids goodbye to Gemma immediately. Understanding as ever, Gemma wishes her luck and continues to chat with Madam Pomfrey.

Darcy almost runs to the dungeons, ignoring the cautious looks other students give her as she passes. _At least someone has returned to me, even if it’s the last person I would have hoped for._ She doesn’t even bother to knock on the classroom door, but instead nearly kicks it down, glad to find Snape cleaning up the desk at the front of the classroom. Darcy takes a few steps in, breathing very heavily.

“You’re back,” she says, hardly able to catch her breath.

Snape doesn’t even look up at her, shuffling with parchment he tosses lazily into the hearthfire.

“Professor Snape?” she asks again.

Still he doesn’t look up, but he hums a bored response.

“I was wondering,” Darcy begins, taking another step forward, “if I might be able to come back next year. As your assistant.”

This makes Snape look up slowly. He straightens, looking no worse than when he’d left. This makes Darcy feel slightly more relieved. “If…” He hesitates, narrows his eyes, as if it’s a trick. “If that is what you wish—”

“—it is.”

“Then I will see you next fall. I’m sure I don’t need to show you the way out?”

“You mean it, sir? I can come back?” She can’t believe it was so easy. It’s official now, and though part of her knew that he would accept, it still makes her feel _happy_ —so happy it makes her breathless. Snape nods. “Thank you, Professor.” And, feeling as if a simple thank you is not enough, she adds, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

Snape pauses for a long time. He is quiet for so long that Darcy doesn’t think he’s going to speak again, so she turns and walks towards the open classroom door. “Are you? Are you all right?”

Darcy freezes, one foot through the threshold. Slowly, she turns, surprised that Snape has asked her such a question. The word _yes_ is on the tip of her tongue, a courteous answer to a courteous question. But Darcy frowns. “No, I’m not.” She thinks of Gemma, waiting for her in the hospital wing; of Harry, allowing her to show slightly more affection towards him lately; of Hermione, who’s been doing her best to comfort her with the simple act of sitting on the sofa and reading silently, enjoying each other’s company; even of Ron, who has always been able lately to make her smile weakly even during the most trying moments.

“No?”

Darcy meets his eyes for a split second. “No,” she repeats. “But I will be.”

* * *

The Leaving Feast is a subdued affair. Gemma occupies the seat to the right of Darcy to her great pleasure, Snape to her left. Darcy notices first Karkaroff’s empty seat, and it makes her frown. The Great Hall has been adorned with black drapes instead of House appropriate ones, and the noise is soft instead of the excited buzz it normally is before the summer holiday. Students pick at their food with pale faces and red-rimmed eyes, and the Hufflepuff table is the worst—the students cry freely, Carla among them. The Durmstrang students seem unusually soft today, and the Beauxbatons students are all wearing long faces. It makes Darcy chest ache with sadness, but she does her best to keep her face dry as with the other teachers. Only Professor Sprout had shed a single tear, and everyone else had the decency to turn a blind eye to it.

When Dumbledore stands to speak, the Great Hall falls silent, and Darcy’s heart begins to race. “The end,” he announces, “of another year.”

Darcy holds her head in her hands. Snape elbows her gently in the ribs to stop her leg from bouncing underneath the table. Dumbledore has everyone stand and raise their goblets for Cedric, and Darcy automatically gets to her feet. The entire student body answers his toast as once—“Cedric”—before sitting back down.

“Cedric Diggory was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, and he valued fair play.” Dumbledore takes a moment to look about the Great Hall. “And I think you all have a right to know exactly how his death came about.”

Sighing loudly, Darcy closes her eyes.

“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.”

There’s lots of gasping and murmuring, anxious and frightened chatter instead of excited gossip. When she opens her eyes again, students look horrified, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open stupidly.

“The Ministry of Magic would not want me telling you this.” The Headmaster takes another long pause. “But I believe that truth is generally preferable to lies, and to pretend Cedric died as the result of an accident is an insult to his memory.”

_He died just for being there_ , Darcy thinks, just as horrified as the students. She remembers what Harry had said during his story, how Voldemort had told Peter Pettigrew to kill the spare—and he _did_. Hogwarts was supposed to be the safest place in the world with Dumbledore there, so how could a student have been killed just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

“Every guest in this Hall will be welcomed back here at any time,” Dumbledore continues, and Darcy wonders, with a sick feeling in her stomach, why anyone would ever consider coming back after what had happened. “In the light of Lord Voldemort’s return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided.”

Darcy lifts her eyes to the Gryffindor table, picking Harry out almost instantly. His eyes are focused upon Dumbledore, his jaw set.

“Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.” Dumbledore looks once more over the sea of students, speaking to them all directly, a very personal sentiment. “We are all facing dark and difficult times. “If the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was kind and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.”

Darcy watches the students file out of the Great Hall as they’re dismissed. _Any one of them could be next, she says to herself. Life is so finite—it could be me, it could be Harry, it could be Gemma, without even a moment’s notice or a chance to say goodbye._ Darcy gets to her feet when the Great Hall is almost empty. Her thoughts make her nauseous.

_Who will this war take from me? It has already taken Remus away from me. Emily and Carla. I mourn for them and they aren’t even dead. What will happen if they stray across the path of Lord Voldemort, just as Cedric had?_

_Who will follow my parents? Mrs. Duncan?_

_Who will be next?_


	61. Chapter 61

She takes a carriage down to Hogsmeade station alone, hoping to finally have time to process everything. With Gemma staying with her for the week, and Harry, Hermione, and Ron constantly at her side, it’s been hard to just sit and think about all that’s taken place.

It’s a bumpy ride, but the thestral is fast and they make good time. Darcy isn’t sure what to even think—hundreds of things are running through her head that she can’t stop to just focus on one. Lupin’s always on the forefront of her mind, no matter how hard she tries not to think about him, but it’s heartbreaking to know that she will no longer be able to look forward to the little things. He’ll likely no longer flash her cool, easy smiles like he used to, she’ll no longer be the recipient of his sweet kisses, in a few months she may even forget what it’s like to be touched by him. Lupin had told her they’d see each other again, but how long would she have to wait? And when that day comes, how could she possibly be content to love him from a distance when she’d much rather be swept into his arms and kissed until no inch of flesh is left unattended? The thought makes her incredibly lonely—Darcy had always sought comfort from him that no one else had ever been able to provide for her, and now that source of comfort is gone, just like that, so suddenly.

And Ludo Bagman never even said goodbye. He’d wrapped his arms around her the night of the third task, holding her back from the scene, had whispered a few feeble pleas in her ear to calm her, and he’d disappeared. Darcy hadn’t even gotten a good last look at his face, this man who had spent so much time in the last year making her smile and laugh. There hadn’t been any time to say goodbye to him, to hear his explanation, to be showered with compliments one last time. She’d give anything to hear him laugh—the deep laugh that always made her smile. She could have gone to him with the story of what happened between she and Lupin—he probably would have even consoled her if she cried. Maybe he was a complete fool, a slightly arrogant (or maybe not so slightly) fool, but she had adored him nonetheless and he’d adored her, and he’s left her with a gaping hole in her heart.

The thing she tries to think about least is Voldemort—the story Harry had told in Dumbledore’s office that had shaken her to her very core. To hear what giving the gift of mercy to Peter Pettigrew meant makes Darcy red with rage. _They should have killed him that night_ , she always tells herself. When she’d said so to Harry a few days past, he’d snapped at her.

“You think that’s what dad would have wanted? You think he would have wanted them to kill their old friend?”

But Darcy had bit her tongue. They would never know what their father would have wanted, seeing as it had been Peter’s fault he died. It’s easy to hate him, easy to siphon her anger towards Peter because of what he’s done, because of the coward he is. It’s hard to forget his face, hard to forget him on his knees in front of her, grubby hands tugging at her skirt. _Why should he live while my parents are dead in the ground?_ she thinks. _He has no right to breathe air after what he’s done._ It’s so incredibly easy to blame him for Voldemort’s return, but at the same time, Darcy wonders if someone else would have taken his place—someone like Barty Crouch Junior, or someone like Snape.

As much as she wants to hate Snape, as well (though her list of reasons for hating him grows shorter with each passing day, it seems), she can’t help but find a queer sort of comfort in him. Snape, who had been at her side for eight straight years at Hogwarts. He had been around for longer than Lupin had been and much longer than Ludo Bagman, and even though Snape had been sent away by Dumbledore, he had _come back_. Darcy had spent days wondering if she’d ever even see him again—she’d spent days assuming he wouldn’t come back because people that she love have a tendency to do just that: leave for good.

Darcy rests her head against the carriage wall, closing her eyes. _And what does this mean for us?_ she asks herself. _It means that my brother is in more danger than maybe he even knows. It means Voldemort will not rest until Harry is dead, and possibly me_. And while the idea frightens Darcy more than she can say—she still hasn’t forgotten the look of Voldemort’s face after he’d killed her mother—and seeing him again many years later isn’t something that quite appeals to her, Darcy feels like she always knew this would happen in the end. Ever since Harry’s first year, the idea that Voldemort would come back (maybe not exactly in this way) had haunted some small part of her brain. There were too many strange things—too strange to be coincidences; Harry’s scar hurting more frequently, the timing of the basilisk returning to attack and kill, the Death Eaters storming the Quidditch World Cup. _And all the while, Dumbledore has kept me at Harry’s side—has made it so I will not leave him by making me return to Privet Drive even when I wanted to take Harry away with me. He has secured me a place at Hogwarts for the sole reason of being with Harry, not because he was impressed with my ability in Potions. He has groomed me for this moment._

Darcy is one of the first on the Hogwarts Express. The students avoid her compartment, not wanting to sit with her, but Darcy pays them no mind. She curls up in the corner of the compartment, resting her head against the cool glass of the window and watching everyone clamber onto the train. She wishes Max were here to nuzzle against her face, but his cage is still empty, and Mr. Weasley hasn’t seen fit to return him with a response to her desperate letter.

She thinks she’d rather be alone, but when Hermione opens the compartment door and throws herself into the seat next to Darcy, Darcy doesn’t complain. She smiles weakly at Harry and Ron, sitting across from her, before resuming her position of staring out the window. When the Hogwarts Express begins to finally move—slowly at first, then quickly, until Hogwarts is out of sight, and all Darcy can see are fields and forests, the blue sky above and the steam from the train outside the window.

The compartment door opens quickly on them, and Crookshanks hisses loudly, jumping from Hermione’s lap up to Darcy’s shoulders. He digs his nails into her scars, but she doesn’t bother pushing him off. Carla’s standing in the threshold, two Hufflepuff girls standing behind her, looking both wary and bored.

“Hi,” Carla says breathlessly, looking everyone over in the compartment. Her eyes finally settle on Darcy as she coerces Crookshanks off her shoulders and down into her lap. “Heard you told Emily off.”

Darcy shrugs. “Emily tell you?”

“Gemma did. She said it was a long time coming.” Carla shifts awkwardly, looking over her shoulder at her friends, urging her to come back to their compartment. “I just wanted to let you know—” She looks at Harry, speaking directly to him. “I believe you, about You-Know-Who coming back. It was good of you to bring Cedric back like you did.”

“He asked me to,” Harry answers flatly. “It was the right thing to do.”

“He didn’t deserve that,” Carla continues, and Darcy tries to silently will her to leave, to stop talking about it. “I knew Cedric, he was my friend, and I know it wasn’t your fault. Was it quick?”

Harry nods slowly.

“Painless?”

He nods again. Darcy suddenly feels bad for Carla. In dealing with everything and all of her own losses, Darcy hadn’t thought of how Carla might be dealing with Cedric’s death. After all, they’d spent seven years in the same House, sitting together at the same table for meals, likely sitting together during classes.

“Good,” Carla says softly. “Good.” She inhales deeply, ignoring her friends now tugging at her arm. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Harry.”

Harry exchanges a cautious look with Darcy. She scratches at Crookshanks’s belly as he opens himself to her, purring loudly in her lap. “Thanks.”

Carla’s soft brown eyes flick to Darcy again. “And I’m sorry about what happened with Lupin. Gemma told me.”

Darcy blushes, not having told Hermione or Ron. Carla clears her throat and nods to her friends, shutting the compartment door with a small, forced smile. When she leaves the four of them alone again, Ron scoffs.

“You didn’t tell us something happened with Lupin!” he frowns, and it makes Darcy smile. “Were you going to wait until I said something stupid before telling me?”

Harry looks unsurprised and unbothered, his nose stuck in the day’s Daily Prophet, contrasting with Ron’s shocked and rather affronted look. “Forgive me for not running to tell you straight away,” she replies kindly, glancing at Hermione, having expected a much louder reaction from her. Darcy’s brow furrows as Hermione fails to meet her eyes, trying very hard to look at her neatly manicured nails. “Gemma told you, didn’t she?”

Hermione’s cheeks turn pink, and she crumbles. “Yes—I’m sorry!” she confesses, giving Darcy an apologetic look. “I went to your room while you weren’t there, and when I asked Gemma about your missing photographs—she didn’t _want_ to tell me, but she wanted to tell me before I said something really stupid in front of you without realizing—”

“Hermione, it’s fine,” Darcy says, smiling at her. Crookshanks leaps out of Darcy’s lap back to Hermione’s. “Don’t worry about it.”

Leaning slightly into Darcy, her face burning a bright red and looking like whatever she has to say is going to kill her, she whispers, “Gemma also said that if you just showed up at his house in your Hogwarts uniform, he probably wouldn’t refuse—”

“ _Hermione_!” Darcy hisses, mortified. Harry and Ron both scrunch their noses at the girls across from them, looking disgusted. In a low voice, Darcy murmurs, “I don’t want you to repeat anything that comes out of Gemma’s mouth, do you understand me?”

Hermione looks away from Darcy, her lips pursed, and her face still red as a tomato. Darcy shakes her head and gives an exasperated sigh.

Ron grumbles, crossing his arms. “I can’t believe I’m the only person in this compartment that didn’t know.”

“Next time something truly awful happens to me,” she teases, trying not to seem hurt, “I’ll be sure to tell you first before anyone, Ron.”

Darcy sleeps the rest of the way home, using her bag as a pillow against the rattling window, resting her feet beside Harry on the opposite bench. Her dreams are not nightmares—not with this restless sleep and with her temple throbbing from slamming against the window—but unsettling dreams of another kind. She feels half a student again, dreaming of Lupin’s head between her legs, of his hands on her bare skin, warmth spreading through her entire body. The feel of his lips against the crook of her neck is all too familiar, too easy to imagine, too easy to dream. And when she wakes, alone and almost at Kings Cross Station once more, it’s more disappointing than she could have ever imagined.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” George, squeezed in between Harry and Ron, laughs as her eyes flutter open. “Have a nice rest?”

“Should I deal you in?” Fred asks her from Hermione’s other side. He holds up the deck of cards in his hands. There’s a wide smile on his face that makes Darcy want to shake him by the shoulders.

“No, thank you.”

As she climbs off the Hogwarts Express a few card games later, sighing heavily, Darcy forces herself to push her trunk back into the Muggle world, where she’s promptly attacked by something flying at her head. Darcy shrieks and closes her eyes as talons scratch her cheek, just barely but enough to draw blood, and then the owl is nipping at her nose and the fingers she’s raised to her face. She laughs then, feathers in her eyes and mouth, tickling her nose, raucous hooting in her ear.

“Max, enough!” she giggles, trying to wrap her arms around Max to still his beating wings. Finally, he settles on her extended forearm, looking at her with watchful eyes from his heart shaped face. “You are sweet, aren’t you? Where have you left the Weasleys?”

He only hoots happily at her again, taking off from his position on her arm. Max flies above the students, circling the taller one’s heads, appreciating those that coo at him. Darcy follows his general direction with Hermione and Ron on her heels as she pushes through the crowd, clearing a path for them. Harry trails slightly behind, talking with Fred and George. It’s only when Max finally dives into the crowd does Darcy see the red hair and pasty complexions of several Weasleys—Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are waiting for their children anxiously and fretfully.

Max is settled on Mr. Weasley’s shoulder, as if he was born there. Mr. Weasley doesn’t seem to mind, but when he sees Darcy peeking through the surrounding crowd, he moves quickly towards her. Darcy falls into him, watching Vernon and Aunt Petunia from the corner of her eye look on with contempt in their faces. She closes her eyes, nearly breaking down into tears as Mr. Weasley’s arms fold around her, kissing her head over and over again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write back, but I was afraid Max would miss you.” Darcy lifts her head from his chest to feel tears dripping down the tip of her nose. She quickly wipes them away as Mr. Weasley smooths her hair back out of her damp face. “How are you feeling? Molly was talking of having you and Harry stay part of the summer with—”

“Come, girl.”

Darcy sighs again, looking over to find Vernon beckoning her closer. “I should go. Thank you for bringing Max back.” She apologizes several times for putting Max back in his cage as he struggles to spread his wings.

Harry and Darcy walk to their aunt and uncle together. As they drag their trunks noisily behind them, Harry mutters, “I gave the money to Fred and George. For their joke shop.”

Darcy cocks an eyebrow. “Joke shop?” Harry only nods, and she shrugs. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

* * *

“You’re too skinny. Boys don’t like skinny girls,” Aunt Petunia notes sharply, which Darcy thinks is pretty laughable, considering Aunt Petunia has no curves whatsoever to speak of. Darcy frowns. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Darcy blushes. “No, Aunt Petunia.”

Aunt Petunia hums, clearly dissatisfied. “I suppose I should be glad you haven’t brought home a freak like your mother did with your father. Turn.” Darcy chews on her bottom lip as Petunia cleans up the dried blood on the backs of her thighs. Her legs still tremble. “I suppose we should be lucky you haven’t brought a baby back like your mother did, either.”

She feels incredibly self-conscious in nothing but a shirt and her underwear, locked in the bathroom with Aunt Petunia.

“You’ll be ready to marry soon,” Petunia says, the cool feeling of cream against the welts on her thighs refreshing. “Why did you have to give Vernon cheek, girl? When will you learn to keep your mouth shut?”

Darcy doesn’t answer. She wraps her arms around herself as Aunt Petunia continues to clean the wounds to her legs. Vernon hadn’t held back with the cane today. Dudley had been teasing her as she watched the television with him, finally making the mistake of calling her an accident.

“You brat!” Darcy had hissed. “My mother was a better mother to me than your parents ever have been!”

Dudley had immediately sought Vernon, told a few lies, and just minutes later, she was bent over the kitchen table as Vernon’s cane licked the back of her thighs, at the bare skin just below the fabric of her shorts. When he asked if she’d had enough, Darcy couldn’t hold her tongue.

“Cane me all you want,” she’d spat at Vernon over her shoulder. “But you should remember that I’m able to do magic outside of school now.”

It was an empty threat, but Vernon had gone purple in the face at the word _magic_ and he’d given her the cane more times than she cared to count, until Darcy could feel the blood trickling down her legs. It was humiliating, and she had wondered what her friends would say if they could see her in such a position. She had wondered what _Lupin_ would say if he knew she’d been in such a position.

When she’d run tearfully to her room, she almost had written him a letter, in the hopes that he’d take her away and she could spend the rest of the summer with him and Sirius. But Aunt Petunia had followed her up and never gave her the chance.

Eyes still swollen, Darcy sniffles. “I hate him. Vernon.”

“Don’t say that,” Aunt Petunia snaps at her.

“It’s true. I hate him.” Darcy swallows the lump in her throat, wincing as Petunia’s long fingernails brush over the welts. “And he hates me.”

“You want my advice?”

“Not really.” Darcy looks her aunt full in the face, looking over her shoulder. Aunt Petunia gives her a stony look, her lips tightening. “I mean—yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Aunt Petunia hesitates. “You marry a nice boy—a _normal_ boy—and you get him to take you far away from here, where you won’t be a burden.”

Darcy feels like crying again, but not from the pain in her legs. “A nice boy _did_ ask to take me far away from here. A nice boy that I love very much. The nicest boy I’ve ever met,” she whispers, half afraid Vernon will hear her from the hallway. And then, without warning, Darcy breaks down into sobs, holding her face in her hands. Petunia takes a step back, bewildered. “And I was _stupid_ enough to refuse him.”

“You look ridiculous, crying over some stupid boy like that,” Aunt Petunia says finally, her tone short and curt. “You always cried a lot as a little girl. Are you still a little girl?”

_A crybaby—that’s what she means._ That’s what Vernon used to call her. Darcy wipes her eyes, her throat burning, her thighs stinging, her heart aching, her eyes itchy. _I chose this over Remus, and now I’m reaping the consequences. I deserve this_.

“No, Aunt Petunia.”

“Then stop crying all the time.”

* * *

Aunt Petunia is able to find an empty photo album in her closet that suits Darcy’s needs, and gives her tape to fix the binding and glue to keep the pictures on the pages. For the first few days, Darcy goes through all of her photographs and finds there are far too many of them—not that she’d ever throw them away, but it takes her a few hours for a few days to sort through them all. Every time she picks one up, she recalls the memory associated with them. Some are dated, but most aren’t, and she tries to organize them by chronological order, or as close to it as she can.

The first photograph is, of course, burned in her memory forever. The picture of Lupin at the market, the day she’d bought her camera. His goofy smile, slight blush, and tousled hair makes her want to cry, but she puts it in the photo album all the same. After the first picture, she closes the album, not wanting to go through anymore of them.

Instead, she empties her trunk, putting her clothes away, realizing how many outfits she still has at Lupin’s—her favorite clothes, her favorite shoes, her favorite perfumes. And tucked away at the bottom are letters Lupin had written her, a sweater of his that he’d left in her dresser at Hogwarts. These things only make her cry again, but she makes sure to cry quietly so Aunt Petunia doesn’t hear, or worse—Vernon.

She locks herself in the bathroom and runs a hot bath. The warm feels good on her legs, and she sinks down to her chin. Every so often, she uses her wand to reheat the water before stashing it under the bath mat. She’s in the bathroom for so long that Harry knocks on the door just to make sure she’s still alive. He sounds quite relieved when he hears her simple answer of, “Yes.”

Darcy thinks of her father a lot, wondering what he would say if he were alive to see his daughter. What would he say if he knew she’d declined to marry his old friend? What would he say if he knew Aunt Petunia and Vernon treat her the way they do? Would he be proud of her for choosing her family over Lupin? For choosing Harry over her own life? How did it even get to this?

_I made the stupid mistake of falling in love with someone_ , she tells herself. _I made the stupid mistake of thinking I could put someone else before Harry. All I wanted was to be loved, and this is where it’s gotten me._

She’s always remembered more of her mother—or maybe it was the fact that everyone told her how similar she and Lily were, and Darcy only _feels_ she knows her mother better. Rarely ever has she craved the presence of her father like she does her mother’s. It had been particularly strong during nights with Lupin when she’d first met him again at Hogwarts; being around him had made her think so much of James that it made her sad when she laid down for sleep at night. The first time Vernon had struck her and left her bruised, she’d cried for her father all night. And now—after having her heart broken by not just Lupin, but Ludo Bagman and even Emily—all Darcy wants is for James to put his arms around her and tell her that everything will be all right, to tell her that he’s proud of her, to kiss her on the forehead.

It makes her feel lonely—lonelier than usual. Without Lupin to send her sweet letters, being unable to speak to Gemma in fear of someone finding out they’re corresponding, and with she and Emily’s and Carla’s falling out, Darcy isn’t sure how she’ll make it through the summer cooped up in the house. She doesn’t want to be stuck in the Muggle world with Aunt Petunia and Vernon and Dudley. _I could run away, and take Harry with me. No one would ever find us. I’d make sure of it._

When Darcy retires to bed that night, she lays awake for a long time, listening to Harry thrash in his bed across the hallway, muttering into his pillow. After a few hours, it stops, and all is silent. She’s glad that Harry’s stopped his tossing and turning, and she feels good enough to sleep herself now. But the doorknob to her bedroom turns slowly and she freezes, staring at the door.

It’s only Harry, bleary-eyed and disheveled. He hesitates in the threshold, and finally decides to shut the door behind him. “I can’t sleep,” he whispers, creeping closer.

Darcy suddenly feels eight or nine-years-old again, listening to a young Harry tiptoe across her bedroom. When he was that young, Harry would climb into bed with her without a word, and he’d never have a problem falling asleep next to her. But now Harry is much older—almost fifteen, and there’s no way they could both fit in her bed without it being extremely tight, uncomfortable, and slightly awkward.

Harry helps Darcy put blankets on the floor, making a large enough spot for the both of them to sleep with plenty of space. Harry lies down first and Darcy throws a blanket over him, getting to her feet and curling up in her own blanket.

They look at each other for a long time, wanting to say things but not wanting to upset each other, moonlight streaming down onto Darcy’s face. “How are your legs?” Harry breathes, and Darcy can barely hear him.

“They’re fine,” Darcy smiles weakly. “You should have seen Vernon’s face when I said the ‘m’ word.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Harry laughs softly, but his heart isn’t really in it. His smile soon fades. “Do you swear that I wasn’t why you and Lupin…?”

“I promise,” she answers. Her stomach churns.

Harry is quiet for a few moments. “Okay.”

“You know that I would do anything for you?” she whispers, reaching out to brush his hair back.

“I know.” Harry takes a deep, shaky breath, yawning. Within seconds, he’s asleep. He twitches every so often, his arm jerking wildly—the arm Peter Pettigrew had cut.

She watches him sleep for a few minutes as her eyes grow heavy with sleep. Darcy used to be amazed with Harry as a baby, even as a toddler, with his little snores and sleep babble that _helped her fall asleep at night. Sometimes I still see that little boy in him_ , she thinks, feeling sorry for her brother. _Let him have a long life. Let him get married and have children. Let him send his own children off to Hogwarts. If I must lose people I love, please don’t let Harry be one of them. Please let me have this, at least._

The next morning, as Darcy and Harry eat the Dursleys leftover breakfast in silence together, Harry finishes first and gathers his dishes and cutlery. As he passes Darcy on the way to the sink, he kisses the top of her head, just as she does to him. Darcy pauses, her fork inches from her lips, as Harry continues about his business as usual, washing his dishes, drying them, putting them away.

Darcy continues to eat as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, but the day seems a little brighter then, a little warmer, slightly more promising—and she comes to the conclusion that maybe she _has_ made the right choice after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m.........so proud of myself.......
> 
> Anyway—writing is just about my only healthy outlet, so it’s super fantastic to see people enjoy it. I still quite haven’t finished outlining the next story, but I’m getting there, slowly but surely. Thanks y’all for being so nice :’)


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